


The Good Spartan

by Jenn_Harper



Category: Ancient History RPF, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Brasidas as the main character, Canon Divergent but probably not enough to call AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Love, M/M, Naval Warfare, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 80,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25276270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenn_Harper/pseuds/Jenn_Harper
Summary: Brasidas prepares to leave Sparta in the first summer of the Peloponnesian War, two years before his path crosses with Alexios in Korinthia.He reflects on his past... and arms for action.~~~This is an intra-canon series inspired by Brasidas, the historical figure. I loved his characterisation, and I really felt like the game didn't give me enough of his story, or ignored the historical reality, so this is my attempt to redress that.It is based largely on the history of the Peloponnesian War written by Thucydides, and the Parallel Lives of Plutarch. I've tried to be as historically accurate as I can, but I don't know everything. Where I have deliberately ignored history though, I note this in the footnotes.I also occasionally share cut scenes and other bits and pieces from this and my other fanfics to my tumblr: harpercybele.I hope you enjoy it! Jenn/Harper :)
Relationships: Alexios/Brasidas (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 48





	1. Looking Backwards

Summer, 431 BCE.

Brasidas stood at the window of his family home in Limnai, looking out at the moon, a cool orb in a clear sky of velvety blues and blacks. The Taygetos mountains thrust jaggedly upwards, the snow at their peaks gleaming in the moonlight. Another man would have seen their beauty, but Brasidas barely noticed.  
He’d been in bed; the sounds of a brief, muted scuffle in the street outside had woken him. Never a deep sleeper since his wife had died the year before, he’d been immediately awake. He’d gone to the window without thinking about it, though he realised he would almost certainly see nothing. He supposed it had been a night raid being carried out by the Krypteia, who were too careful to be seen.  
He put his hands behind his back and allowed his mind to drift. That morning the assembly had voted him into the commanding position of a force of one hundred hoplites who were being sent to patrol the west coast of Messenia, which had been a part of Lakonia for nearly three hundred years, albeit not without difficulties. The Athenians had been raiding that coast remorselessly, and King Archidemos, the Spartan King, had effectively urged the ephors to send a new force into the area to prevent them doing further damage - and, understood by all the Spartiates in subtext, to prevent the helots from rising up against their masters, again, with Athenian encouragement.  
He’d felt a spike of pleasure at this step upwards in his career. He knew his own heart; had known from a very young age that he wanted to be somebody, and this felt like the first step in that direction. This desire was, in one way, as purely a Spartan drive as any, but somewhere inside, he felt a familiar shadow of guilt about it. Like all Spartans, he’d been raised to think only of what was good for Sparta as a community. The agoge encouraged competition between the boys of course, but only so far; at a certain point, that competition was expected to become a combined force, all personal competition forgotten; but he also saw that what he was being taught was an ideal which didn’t reflect the truth either of what he wanted, nor of what he saw going on in the real world beyond his training.  
He’d also realised early that to succeed at his goal, he couldn’t only be strong, he also had to be smart. His father, Tellis, was a member of the Gerousia and had spent an unusual amount of time with his son over the years explaining politics to him. That too was un-Spartan: Not only should he have given up his personal feelings for his son, he should have trusted to the agoge for everything his son needed to know.  
Brasidas smiled. He had long ago acknowledged that it was his father’s influence which had formed his ambitions.  
Besides this early and continuing education in the politics of Sparta and the larger Greek world, Brasidas had understood that he must become what was expected of him, and if possible, he should excel everyone else at it.  
It had been difficult, of course, especially at first. The training was harsh, designed to make the boys suffer and harden. The physical suffering, though, was nothing to the personal sacrifice, the process of stripping back the young carefree boy he had been at seven in order to become a true Spartan man – a struggle that he would never be able to put into words. Eventually, that struggle too ended, and what had begun as an act had solidified into his reality. Only this last shred of truly individualistic desire remained of the man he might have been, had he not been born a Spartan, with all the burdens that entailed.  
He’d succeeded at being the best. He was regularly singled out for the way he fought, the way he led the boys in his group – and he was always the leader. That too had come naturally to him.  
Perhaps the most difficult aspect of his youth had been the attentions of the older men, which all the boys knew to expect, but Brasidas had found it more difficult than some to accept. He’d known even as a young man that he did not feel excitement towards other men; his tastes had always been towards the young women with their graceful and willowy strength. The girls, just like the boys, exercised naked, though they did so in a separate gymnasium from the boys. Not that that stopped the boys from finding ways to observe them. Anyway, he'd managed to avoid having a male lover through a combination of undisguised hostility to overtures, and overt reference to his personal distaste. As a boy, he’d thought it was his character which had prevented this unusual refusal to satisfy the older men from affecting his career. Later, he realised it had more to do with his father’s position of power in the Gerousia.  
A breeze came in the window chilling his bare chest unpleasantly. As always when he met with discomfort, he remained where he was, facing up to it. It reminded him of the first winter he’d been sent into the mountains with his one cloak and the members of his group under the direction of the Wolf of Sparta, then a young General, but always a hard teacher. His winter forays were notorious, but also keenly anticipated as a true test of the mettle amongst the boys.  
They’d spent their days hunting for food or carrying out drill after drill, the cold and the thin air making some of the weaker boys pass out, but not Brasidas. He’d gritted his teeth and done everything he could to keep the others’ morale up, leading by example. Twice he’d received the mild smile from the Wolf - the only sign he ever gave of his approval: once when Brasidas had killed a stag so large, it had taken three boys to drag it back to the camp; and once when he had forced the group to hold formation when they were rushed by a bear; in full phalanx formation they had skewered the animal without any of the boys being hurt.  
After he’d left the agoge and served at various minor postings, he reached the age of twenty-five, the age at which men were expected to take a wife. His father had been swift in his decision, and arranged the marriage to Zoe, an heiress with substantial lands to her name following the death of her pater. Brasidas remembered the wedding in a strangely dreamlike way, as he supposed many a Spartan man had done before him.  
It had been at mid-summer, the air warm and sultry. He’d dined at the mess as though it was any other night. He still lived in the barracks then, as tradition demanded; he waited until everyone was asleep before sneaking out. It was imperative that no one knew where he’d gone; he would be shamed if his absence was noted.  
He’d passed through the streets of Sparta with a hammering heart, nervously wiping his hands on his tunic. He’d seen Zoe before at dancing competitions, but they’d never talked. He didn’t really have much experience interacting with women beside the occasional perfunctory discussion with his own, severely Spartan mater. At least he’d seen erotic scenes on plates and bowls, so he basically knew what went where – but still, he was nervous.  
He reached the house of her pater, and had stolen in through the only small window to the room. Inside was entirely dark, except for the very minimal light cast by the stars outside. In near total silence, he tried to identify where she was by the sound of her breathing, at last bumping into her where she was waiting mutely. He fumbled with her belt, a symbol of her chastity, and after an awkward interlude, he was able to throw this aside. Finally, sweating in his excitement and nervousness, he’d carried her the few steps to the bed and laid her down - more carefully than he was probably supposed to, he’d thought at the time, since he was meant to be simulating rape.  
In the darkness, they'd awkwardly manoeuvred themselves around until it was clear they had got themselves into the right position; then he had with great care, eased himself into her.  
He shook his head slowly at the memory. He couldn’t now remember exactly what he had expected from the experience, but he did remember being pleasantly surprised; and though they were both careful not to make much noise, he could tell by her breathing that she too was enjoying the moment. He’d found himself wishing he could see her face, wondered what her pleasure might look like... The thought had caused him to climax; he was stunned when he had felt her respond in kind. A grunt of surprise had escaped him; he’d had no idea such things were possible.  
In the darkness, he’d tumbled onto the bed beside her, both of them breathing fast.  
When he'd caught his breath, though he knew he wasn’t supposed to, he reached out, and for a few moments, he held her to his chest. She didn’t resist; and in a moment of tenderness that was purely instinctual, he kissed the top of her head. Her hair, newly cut short, bristled at his chin. He felt a moment of regret; she’d had beautiful long hair, a rich dark brown, which he’d admired sweeping across her shoulders. She would keep her hair short now as the laws required - a great pity.  
That thought had reminded him of his duty, and he’d released her hastily, suddenly embarrassed, and climbed from the bed. He pulled on his tunic once more, and without saying a word, he’d gone back out the window, scurried back to the barracks, and slipped back into his pallet there.  
He’d laid awake for a long time, his mind filled with the wonder of what he’d experienced. He understood why Lycurgus had deemed it against the law to have unfettered access to one’s wife; the pleasure seemed dangerously alluring.  
He shook his head again, and turning away from the window smiling to himself, he went back to his bed.  
He knew now that his wife had been so much more than he could have imagined on his wedding night. He was rather ashamed to remember himself at that age, seeing her as a biddable vehicle for his own pleasure. He’d had so much to learn, of course – about women, and about himself – and still did, he added wryly to himself.  
When she’d died of an illness in a matter of days, he’d remained a good Spartan, not showing his grief in any outward form, and in the passing months, he'd ceased to grieve at all; but he had to acknowledge that the loss had changed him. His sense of humour had dulled, he’d become more serious and sober... and from there, the experience had only served to sharpen his focus. He could not know how long his life might be. He would not make the mistake of thinking he had time to tarry.  
Besides, with the war with Athens having arrived, life was more uncertain than ever. He, like many other Spartans, saw this as a chance for glory, and in a rush of excitement, he remembered that tomorrow, he would be leading a unit for the first time.  
He’d been on patrol in Messenia during other summers, so he had enough experience to feel confident in his abilities, but he had yet to face a hostile army; the challenge he had trained for his whole life. The first time he’d been sent, he’d been a young man in his first year out of the agoge; shoulders squared, feeling invincible in his armour. Tellis had given Brasidas the armour when he’d left home to take his place at the barracks; even at the time of his first patrol, the shield had already been dented and marked from practice.  
He glanced at the shield then, where it leant against the wall, gleaming in the lamplight. The inverted lambada, red against dark blue, and the almost golden gleam of bronze showing here and there where swords had damaged the surface. He smiled to himself. He remembered where each of the scars on the shield had come from, just as he remembered each of his own scars. He’d carried the shield so much over the years, sometimes it felt as much a part of him as a leg or arm.  
The lamp guttered out then, and in the close darkness, he curled on his side, feeling wide awake, but with the faint hope that Morpheus would come back again for him.

‘Brasidas,’ a soft, feminine voice said with a gentle shake of his shoulder. ‘Dawn comes.’  
For a moment, he was confused. He’d been dreaming; the image of brown feathers ruffling in the breeze, and someone humming a melancholy tune was all that remained as Hypnos' visions faded away.  
He sat up frowning lightly, rubbing his face, his beard bristling against his hand.  
In the light of a lamp she was carrying, he recognised his mother, Argileonis. She was always up earlier even than the helots, a quiet presence in the house which had given Brasidas comfort in the hardest days after Zoe’s passing and who had continued to care for him in her own quiet way ever since. He glanced towards the window and saw the first hints of dawn in the sky; in a rush of adrenaline, he remembered that today was the day. He was expected in Sparta before dawn.  
He nodded, and she retreated into the main room of the house, leaving him to prepare.  
He hurried with his armour, long practice making the process quicker than it had been when he was young, then he went out to the main room where his mater waited.  
She looked him over, and though she didn’t smile, there was affection in her voice. ‘You do this family credit, Brasidas.’  
He placed his forehead against hers in goodbye, and then pulled the external door open and disappeared into the darkness.  
Argileonis pulled her cloak close about her shoulders and said quietly to herself, ‘Go honourably, my son.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> ... I kind of feel like I need to say, 'Excuse me while I attempt to climb into Brasidas' head' about this chapter. There will be more action in the following chapters, I promise! :)  
> The details of Spartan life, particularly the agoge and marriage, are taken from Plutarch's 'Life of Lycurgus' and Xenophon's 'Spartan Society'.  
> Details of Brasidas' parents are taken from Paul Cartledge's 'The Spartans: An Epic History'. Tellis and Argileonis were historically Brasidas' parents; but as far as we know, he had no children, and perhaps wasn't married - equally, he may have been married and only had female children, or the children didn't survive, and thus they weren't recorded in the histories - which is unfortunately common. Zoe is therefore a creation of my imagination. I found the details of women being able to inherit wealth in their own name here to.


	2. Methone

Summer 431 BCE

The large Spartan camp was drenched in bright summer sun, where it overlooked the sea to the south and west. The bright dazzle of sunlight on wave tips in the distance was punctuated by the peninsula known as Pylos, and the dark mass of Sphacteria Island with its darkly wooded slopes in the further distance.  
Brasidas looked out at it for a moment, scanning for returning patrols or scouts. Seeing none, he turned away, walking to the mess. He sat on one of the long benches, and took out an apple which would do for his midday meal.  
He looked over the camp as he chewed slowly. He was generally satisfied with things so far. There had been no encounters with the Athenians yet, but as the unit was newly formed, the downtime had been a blessing. He’d set about training the men almost as though they were still in the agoge – drills, drills and more drills. He knew he’d been relentless, but that was the cost of being successful. It was imperative that he iron out any troubles within the phalanx before they faced the enemy, or those fault lines would lead to disaster. The strength of the unit as a whole depended on teaching men who had never worked together how to function with their new brothers in arms. Brasidas felt he had made good progress; though it galled him, he had conceded the perfection he imagined might not be achievable.  
He could confidently say he knew the name and face of every man in his unit. He’d already known all of the Spartiates, or the Equals as they called themselves, on setting out from the city - there were collectively relatively few Equals of military age to know; but a high proportion of the hoplites under Brasidas’ command weren’t Spartiate; instead, they were drawn from the perioeki and helots of Lakonia. The helots were slaves, freed for military service; while the perioeki, though free born, were still considered second class citizens in Sparta. Many of the Equals despised the inclusion of these men into the army and made no secret of their feelings – another reason for Brasidas’ emphasis on training; an attempt to create bonds between brothers where no bonds could have existed before. It had not been entirely successful, he admitted; but there had been progress. He could only hope that true battle would chase away the remaining reservations of some of the Spartiates.  
Brasidas had personally decided long since that the only true measure of a man was how he performed in battle. If he was brave and loyal, Brasidas would respect him just as much as a Spartiate who did likewise. After all, Ares didn’t care where a man’s ancestors came from; he would bleed just the same, regardless of his ancestors.  
After two weeks, they had for the most part learnt to work with each other, but also what to expect of Brasidas as well. Everyone knew that a man could change when he gained leadership, no matter how small the power that implied, so even those who had worked beside him before had been wary; but Brasidas was not one of those people. He’d been careful to remain just as he’d always been: strict and relentless, but also kind and personable.  
This quality of being personable was something he consciously cultivated, though it came easily to him; after all, loyalty was just as important as bravery on the battlefield – perhaps more so, as loyalty often inspired bravery. He finished his apple and stretched his arms above his head. His whole body ached from the training, but in the best kind of way.  
‘Sir,’ a young man said, approaching from the direction of the supply tents.  
Brasidas had split the unit into three groups so that they could be cycled through their duties; namely, training, guarding the camp or on patrol, and resting. There was a group acting in each of these capacities at any given time. Brasidas recognised him as one of the third group, who were engaged in training until Helios reached the meridian. ‘Conon,’ he said. ‘What is it? Shouldn’t you be training?’  
‘Yes, sir; but it’s about my position in the phalanx sir. Praxidas sent me to talk to you about it.’  
‘Then talk,’ Brasidas said.  
A flush had slowly crept up Conon’s neck, but he said firmly, ‘I’m placed with Pallias in the third group, sir, and he’s become my lover.’  
Brasidas didn’t say anything for a moment. He couldn’t understand why, under the circumstances, anyone would be thinking about love, but then it was the gods who made those decisions, not men. He felt exasperated anyway, though he hid the emotion from his face. A lover and his boyfriend were never placed together in the phalanx, because it was supposed that they would be more concerned for the man they loved than they might be for the rest of their brothers in arms; so, either Conon or Pallias would have to be moved to another group.  
‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll advise Praxidas of my decision.’  
Conon nodded, and went away again, leaving Brasidas to exhale in a long sigh. At least there was an easy solution; dealing with trouble amongst the men was not always so simple.  
His second in command, Praxidas, a dour dark-haired man who had been in Brasidas’ group in the agoge and was a good friend, came across from the training ground and sat beside him. ‘The third group have finished their drills and gone to rest; the second group will commence immediately post meridian.’  
Brasidas nodded and was about to comment when his attention was distracted by one of his scouts, a man named Philokrates, who came riding into camp at speed, his horse lathered in sweat, and dismounted even before the beast had fully ceased moving.  
Something urgent then, Brasidas thought, and hurried to meet him, followed closely by Praxidas.  
‘Report, sir,’ Philocrates said, slightly breathless from the ride.  
‘Go ahead.’  
‘Thirty Athenian ships are coming in to anchor off the south coast, near Methone. It’s the raiding force that was sighted further north some days ago.’  
Brasidas nodded. He knew that the Athenians had as many as one hundred and fifty ships raiding the coast; but this particular force of thirty ships had been doing the most damage to the area which was within his remit. Methone was a perioekic town on the southern tip of the peninsula at the extreme south of the region known as the Bay of Hades, and would be ripe for attack. He said, ‘Pass the word to the men to prepare to march out.’  
He watched Philokrates move away into the camp, seeking out the herald whose job it was to pass orders - both in camp, and during battle; then he rested his hand on Praxidas’ shoulder for a moment before going to prepare himself.

Brasidas led them east and then south towards Methone. The terrain was rugged, low mountains rising above them as they followed a narrow winding road that hugged the coast. Helios had tipped well past the meridian, and they began to be engulfed by shadow.  
The scent of smoke reached them as they neared the end of the peninsula, where the high hills became much lower and more rolling; the scent continued to grow stronger as they came closer to the town, though it was still out of sight.  
Brasidas called a halt. He said to Praxidas, ‘We’d better have the scouts assess what’s going on ahead.’  
He nodded, and indicated to Philokrates that he should go. The scout nodded and went, clamouring up the hill beside the unit and disappeared over the crest.  
A tense wait ensued which felt much longer than it was; the men remained shield and spear in hand, watchful; Brasidas was split between two hopes - first, that they were not too late and would find the Athenians still there; and second, that they would reach the town before darkness came. Everyone knew that fighting in the dark was impossible. Confusion was inevitable, unnecessary deaths would always be the result. If there was too great a delay, they would have to attack in the morning, and who knew if there would be anything to defend then; and, perhaps worst of all, he would have signally failed at his job.  
Philokrates came down the hill again, his face red with exertion, stones tumbling before him. He gave his report succinctly. ‘Probably less than a thousand attackers. They’re preparing to fire the wall, which is unmanned. There are also small parties dispersed through the farmland setting fire to the crops. No one appears to be on watch.’  
‘They think they can act with impunity,’ Praxidas said, grimly smiling, ‘Typical Athenian arrogance.’  
Brasidas considered this information for a moment. He knew what he wanted to do was extremely daring, perhaps even rash; yet Ambition murmured in his ear, silencing his doubts; if he succeeded in saving the town against such a vast force, he knew he would be hailed as a hero – a tantalising vision that he could not turn away from.  
Eyes gleaming, he said, ‘We must reach the town and man the walls. From there we can drive them off.’ He turned and said to the herald who was hovering nearby. ‘Pass the word – we charge for the gates. Kill all we meet.’ The herald went at once.

The unit advanced at speed, moving almost as one, just as they had been trained, kept in good order by the steady beat provided by the herald’s aulos; the men themselves were silent, concentrating on what was ahead, watchful and cautious.  
As they approached the town, the land had been turned to farmland, scattered with small houses and silos, many of which had been torched, crops were burning, the air thick with pluming smoke.  
With more space, the Spartans fanned out, and formed into loose lines as they raced towards the town walls, ruthlessly cutting down the few Athenians they encountered.  
A shout was raised inside the town - Brasidas and his hoplites had been spotted by the Methonians, so that by the time they reached the gates, they’d been opened and the Spartans rushed into the town and the gates were swiftly closed behind them.  
The chief magistrate of the town came to greet Brasidas, tears pouring down his face. ‘I thought we were doomed!’ he wailed, bordering on hysteria.  
Brasidas had not relaxed. ‘There is no time for that,’ he said brusquely, knowing that any sympathy he might show would only make the man worse. ‘Why are the walls unmanned?’  
‘We have no arms after being raided in spring. They took anything they could find; and still, that was nothing compared to…’ He suddenly broke down entirely, and Brasidas turned away from him.  
To Praxidas, he said tersely, ‘Have the walls manned. Make a show so they know we’re here.’ The attackers were only a raiding party after all; they wouldn’t have come prepared for any kind of siege or open battle. Just the fact of the Spartans being in the town in unknown numbers might well drive them away. ‘Have anyone not on the wall gathering ammunition,’ he continued. ‘Set our best discus throwers to driving the enemy away from the place they’ve been preparing to fire.’  
Praxidas turned and began barking orders, and most of the men began dispersing to the walls, while others turned into the town, and began accumulating anything that could be thrown down onto the attackers – rocks, heavy pots, roof tiles, anything that could do damage when dropped onto or thrown at a man.  
Brasidas went up onto the walls himself. The sun had begun sinking below the horizon, the sky fiery oranges and yellows.  
For the first time, he could see the Athenian camp in the west. Not as large as he had expected, so a good chance that there were less attackers than could be assumed by the number of ships at anchor. That was promising.  
In the morning he would reassess; for what remained of the day, he could only hope that the projectiles would drive them away from the walls. He sighed, and went back down to ground level. He was exhausted, but with iron will, he refused his body what it demanded and began carrying the ammunition up onto the walls with the others.  
As long as his men were conducting an operation, he would be ready to assist in whatever way he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> Methone doesn’t exist in the game, and we have no idea what it looked like historically either (beyond the fact it had walls), so I invented that myself. I imagine it on the very southern tip of the region called ‘The Bay of Hades’, between the Kolonides Camp and Daughters of Artemis’ Pedasos Camp.  
> The histories tell us very little about what actually happened in this encounter beyond the briefest outline, literally, ‘[Brasidas] went to the aid of the townspeople with 100 hoplites. The Athenians were dispersed across the countryside or concentrating on the wall, and Brasidas charged straight through them and burst into Methone: he lost a few of his men in the charge, but saved the town.’ (Thucydides, 2.24).  
> What this actually looked like on the ground is open to speculation and I have rewritten it a number of times, trying to figure it out. How many Athenians were at Methone? Once inside the walls, what did the Spartans do to drive the Athenians off? Did they attack them from the walls, march out and face them in a series of skirmishes, or a combination of the two? Or was the Spartans' unexpected presence in the town enough to cause the Athenians to break off their attack as I have outlined?  
> My version attempts to draw the historical version as I *think* it may have happened, but it’s just one possibility of many.  
> The details about lovers in the phalanx, and the make-up of the army including helots and perioeki, are drawn from Cartledge's 'The Spartans: An Epic History.'


	3. The Commendation

Brasidas woke in the darkness of the sleeping chamber in the family home in Sparta with a strange feeling of de ja vous. He’d returned to Sparta late the night before, having completed his summer of patrolling Messenia which, after Methone, had been relatively quiet. A skirmish here, a tussle there. He could almost, in that moment before being properly awake, have believed he had never left the city at all.  
Though he’d slept deeply, he was still tired. He laid for a few minutes, allowing himself to come awake slowly, enjoying the last few moments of warm contentment which, these days, only existed for him in this half asleep, half awake state.  
Today was an important day in his life; today he was being publicly commended for his leadership in the relief of Methone.  
He allowed himself to think back to the town, to what had happened there the morning after they had rushed into the city and manned the walls.  
He’d worked alongside his men until they were prepared for action in the morning, then he’d managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep in the Temple of Herakles. In the morning, rising with the sun, he had been prepared for a day of hard fighting. He’d gone up onto the walls once more, and looked down over the place the Athenian camp had been. He had been surprised to discover it was gone. In the distance, the raiding party could be seen boarding their ships in the bay, preparing, he supposed, to move on to make trouble somewhere else.  
He’d glanced at a young soldier, named Orontes from the second group, standing watch nearby; they’d nodded a greeting to one another, and then Orontes had gestured towards the fleeing raiding force and sneered. ‘Cowards.’  
Brasidas had not said so then, but he didn’t think that the Athenians were cowards. He’d enacted his bold action in the hopes that the enemy would behave just as they had – though he had expected them to at least persist for a day or two. Praxidas afterwards had grumbled that it hadn’t been a true victory – he wanted blood, of course, as a good Spartan should; but Brasidas believed that effective action did not necessarily require bloodshed. Sometimes, a well thought out and bold strategy could do the job without the human cost. Violence should always be a final resort. Both Orontes and Praxidas were typically Spartan, Brasidas thought wryly; they would both have been appalled at the very idea that Athenians should not be killed at every chance there was.  
He got out of bed and began the task of dressing in his armour, taking his time, checking as he went that he had missed no detail when he’d cleaned it the night before. He picked up his shield, tested its weight out of habit, and then strapped it to his back.  
He emerged into the main room of the house, where Tellis, who was dressed in his own armour and looked as though he had already been running that morning, looked him over with his eagle-eye, before nodding approval.  
‘You’re ready?’  
Brasidas said he was, and they went together out into the darkness, just then fading at Dawn’s gentle insistence that another day should come.  
Tellis asked quietly, ‘Have you heard about Megaris?’  
Brasidas knew that there had been an expeditionary force sent there under the leadership of his old teacher, the Wolf of Sparta, but he had heard nothing since. ‘Were we victorious?’  
Tellis’ face couldn’t be seen in the darkness, but his voice made it clear he was disturbed. ‘We were, but at a great cost. The army was assisted by a misthios calling himself Alexios, the Eagle Bearer. The stories the men tell about him defy belief; I must assume they exaggerate.’  
‘In what way?’ Brasidas asked with quiet curiosity.  
Tellis almost scoffed. ‘They’re saying he killed over fifty men during the battle; single-handedly removed six of their captains, including the polemarch and their champion.’  
‘Impossible,’ Brasidas said with a shake of his head. ‘But what is this cost you mentioned?’  
‘The Wolf, after the battle, met in private with this Alexios. He has not been seen since.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘He’s missing?’  
Tellis said, ‘Well, no body has been found, but I think we can assume he is dead. Do you remember what happened to Nikolaos’ family?’  
Brasidas had been in his second year out of the agoge when those terrible events had occurred; he had heard about it, everyone had. He frowned. ‘In outline, yes; but what does that have to do with his disappearance?’  
‘His son’s name was Alexios,’ Tellis said.  
Brasidas was stunned by this. ‘You don’t mean to suggest that the boy lived after being thrown from the mountain?’  
Tellis said, ‘The coincidence is too great to be otherwise, don’t you think?’  
Brasidas privately thought the idea ridiculous, but diplomatically, he said, ‘Who knows what the Gods might do?’  
‘Indeed,’ Tellis said. 

By the time they reached Sparta, and the open area outside the throne room, most of the Equals had already gathered, as had the Gerousia, and the various groups of youth from the agoge. It was one of those mornings when the sun had little warmth in it, and a steady wind, blowing in off the sea, scudded thin grey clouds across a clear sky. There had been heavy rainfall during the night though, and there were puddles everywhere, mud was thick on the soles of shoes, the eaves of the public buildings and trees and bushes were still dripping, and a everyone looked a little pinched by this early showing of winter.  
The Kings, Pausanias and Archidemos, took their place on the steps of the throne room with the twenty-eight members of the Gerousia behind them; but it was Archidemos who addressed the assembly of the Spartiates.  
In typically laconic style, he said, ‘We are here today, brothers in arms, to commend Brasidas of Sparta, son of Tellis, for his brave action at Methone. He without hesitation led a unit of 100 hoplites against the far superior numbers of our enemies, and drove them from our lands. For these loyal actions, Brasidas, we commend you. Your name will be inscribed on a bronze plaque and presented to Athena Chalkioikos, that your bravery may be remembered forever.’  
Brasidas listened to these words, his hands behind his back, looking at some point above the heads of his brothers. He had always thought when this moment came – and he had always been certain it would – that he would feel that he had reached some kind of end point. He was disturbed to note that all he felt was dissatisfaction; as though a mountain was still looming before him which he had yet to climb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> Brasidas did receive the first commendation of the war in Sparta as related in all the sources, probably based on Thucydides. I couldn't find any details of how the commendation happened; so the ceremony as I have related it is invented. The engraving on bronze and offering it in a temple was certainly something the Ancient Romans did; and the temple of Athena Chalkioikos was called 'The Bronze House'; so I took the liberty of combining the two.


	4. The Murder of Diphridas

430 BCE

Spring

Winter had passed in Sparta in a typically cold, wet way. The snows were thick on the mountains, and for a long while, no one could get in or out of the Eurotas Valley due to the snow in the passes. It was as though the whole city hibernated. With the Wolf missing and presumed dead, the boys didn’t even go up into the mountains as they usually would. Out of respect, no one wished to fill the vacancy left by Nikolaos so soon. He was a man who had loomed large for all of them, and it seemed almost impossible that he was gone.  
When the first signs of thaw arrived, though, Sparta sprang back to life, and on a cold but sunny day, Brasidas made his way towards the throne room once more. It had been a productive season for him, crowned with political success: In the first Assembly of the Equals for the year, convened to elect the ephors, he had the satisfaction of hearing his own name announced, and a roar of support go up from the Assembly.  
He had stepped forward, flushed with pleasure and feeling humbled by this mark of respect, because to his way of thinking, it was only his brothers who had given him the position, not anything he had done. Canvassing was against the laws, though he knew the effect his commendation had had on his chances, and the ever-present influence of Tellis.  
He was walking in the company of his fellow ephor, Diphridas, from Mesoa where both men had their homes. They were on their way to conduct the monthly oath swearing, the second for the year, during which each of the kings solemnly declared to the ephors and to the gods to observe and uphold the laws of Sparta. This was followed by the reciprocal oaths of the ephors, who declared their support the kings on condition that they kept their own oaths.  
The two men had been talking about the recent marriage of one of the other ephors, and Diphridas, who was a slender, sandy-haired man a little older than Brasidas, suddenly said, ‘I’m still surprised that you haven’t taken another wife yet. You must want sons?’  
‘Of course,’ Brasidas said. ‘In due time, I will.’  
Diphridas nodded. ‘My two sons are my pride and joy. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you to be of our age and still have no children.’  
‘You have two sons?’ Brasidas asked conversationally, to steer him away from criticism of his own lack of a wife and children. He had thought about it in passing, but he was busy, and with the war now on hand, it just didn’t seem as important to him as it probably should have been. Though he wasn’t much interested in Diphridas’ sons, he didn’t let it show. He was yet to meet a man who didn’t want to talk about his children, and he always let them run. Sometimes he even listened.  
‘Yes; my eldest, Isadas, is in the Krypteia, as you know. It was a proud day for us when we heard he had been recruited.’ He beamed at Brasidas, who smiled back.  
His smile dropped a little as he said, ‘My younger son, Thaletas, is a different story, though. He’s in his final year of the agoge, and though he’s not as skilled as Isadas, they say he’ll make a suitable soldier.’ He continued with heavy disapproval, ‘His mother was rather too involved with him as a child. I ordered her to trust to the agoge, but I often saw her fussing over him.’ He shook his head. ‘Women just don’t understand that softness breeds softness.’  
Brasidas said carefully, ‘No, I suppose they don’t.’  
Certainly, he’d long since acknowledged that there had been a certain amount of softening to his character, his Spartan-ness, from the experience of marriage, though he had resisted it at first. There’d been a space of a year or two after he’d married Zoe during which he had, with iron determination, kept to the strict dictates of the laws: he never saw his wife in daylight, never saw her at all outside that dark room except from a distance, and conversed with her very little even when they were together. They had become adept at giving each other pleasure, and it was that more than anything which had slowly undone his predetermined projection of what their relationship should be.  
He had at first only stayed long enough to do his duty; then he stayed to do his duty more than once; and in time, he found himself sneaking out the window as dawn tinted the sky with pink, having been lost in the sweet joys of lovemaking all night, and loathe to go.  
Brasidas had grappled with his feelings on the matter for a long time. He knew of men – good Spartans, held up as examples - who’d carried on like that for many years, their wives having borne them children and they’d never even spoken to them, nor taken any part in the child raising at all. He knew that Diphridas was one of them. It made the other man’s pride in his sons slightly puzzling, and his second wife’s resistance to his orders concerning Thaletas entirely understandable – not that he would say that to Diphridas, of course.  
Brasidas hadn’t known much as a younger man, but at twenty-seven or thereabouts, he’d known he didn’t want that. He wanted to know his wife, wanted to know the children they would surely have together - as people, as family, just as his pater had been with him and his mother.  
He’d gone to Tellis and asked that he might be given permission to move out of the barracks and into a house of his own with Zoe. His apprehension about the conversation was unfounded. His pater had looked at him as though he was very proud of him; Brasidas now realised he had been waiting for his son to ask. He’d been the one to deliver the news to Zoe.  
His wife had told him years later that she’d been hoping the moment would come, but had begun to think it never would, believing that he was content with the way things were. She had once even described the day Tellis had announced that she would be moving house as the happiest of her life.  
The first time he’d walked to the house in Mesoa after the evening meal at the mess, he’d stood for a long moment outside, looking at the lamplight in the windows and thinking… what exactly? He couldn’t now say with any certainty, but he had been full of hope for the future.  
They’d reached the throne room by then, the ephors and Archidemos waiting outside, stamping their feet against the cold, and Diphridas said darkly, ‘Pausanias is late again, it seems.’  
Brasidas frowned. It was increasingly common for the younger king to treat his duties with a certain level of arrogance and disdain. He wondered what the cause might be, and determined that he would do something towards investigating the matter when he had a chance. Perhaps once the campaigning season began in summer there would be time.

After the oaths had been sworn, the ephors were turning to leave the room, Pausanias with them, when Archidemos called Brasidas back. The two men were on good terms, sharing a common regard for the old ways and for the necessity of the war with Athens.  
‘What is it, my King?’  
‘Walk with me,’ Archidemos said gruffly, and they set off at a slow walk towards the statue of Leonidas. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the upcoming campaign season.’  
‘Of course,’ Brasidas said, ‘I heard the Gerousia were discussing the possibility of ravaging Attika.’  
He nodded. ‘They’re going to present the motion to the Assembly at the next meeting; we are certain to carry the day.’  
Brasidas nodded curtly. ‘Excellent.’  
‘I’ll be leading the army – that’s already been decided between Pausanias and I. It only remains to be decided which of the ephors will march with us. I want you to be one of them.’  
‘I’m flattered, my King,’ Brasidas said sincerely. ‘Though perhaps someone more experienced…’  
Archidemos interrupted, ‘I don’t want experience; I want intelligence.’  
Brasidas felt some heat in his cheeks, and said, ‘Thank you. I will of course serve Sparta in any way I can.’  
‘Excellent,’ he said, and patted his shoulder in thanks.

Summer

When the Spartan army reached the Plains of Demeter, Attika was at the peak of her harvest, the fields ripe with grain crops. The people had fled into the city, safe behind the closed gates, leaving the farmlands to be burnt, the houses and silos torched, and the animals that they hadn’t taken with them to be slaughtered.  
It took several days after the Spartans had entered Attika before there was any response from the Athenians, and even then, it was one that they hadn’t anticipated.  
Brasidas and Diphridas, who’d been chosen by the Gerousia to accompany the king, shared a tent.  
It was a clear night, the air warm and there was no breeze to relieve the unpleasantly steamy heat inside the sleeping tent. Brasidas was curled on his side, trying desperately not to hear the mumbled flattery, moans and other sounds coming from Diphridas’ direction as he and his lover, Namertes, did whatever it was they were doing; he tried equally desperately not to think about that.  
Suddenly, he became aware that someone had snuck into the tent. He was immediately on his feet, a dagger in hand, but before he had even done that, he saw by the light of the torches outside that the figure had struck the young soldier down, his blood spraying up and over Diphridas. The ephor gave an unmanly squeal, and tried to scramble away from the assassin, but without success, and his blood was swiftly added to the awful mess already covering that side of the tent.  
Abstractly, as he saw this happening, keeping a close eye on the dark figure, Brasidas thought Diphridas might find it a comfort to follow his lover down to Hades, if there was any comfort to be had in death.  
She turned – Brasidas was certain it was a female, though her face was covered by a full-faced helmet – and prepared to attack him. He was very conscious that he was unclothed with only a dagger, while she was fully armoured with a sword that gleamed as it caught the light.  
For a moment, he honestly thought that the gods had deserted him, but catching the thought, he gritted his teeth and determined he would not go down without a fight.  
She lashed out towards him, and he dodged expertly to one side. She struck again, and again he dodged. Those two strokes were enough to tell him what he needed to know: she was left-handed, she was inclined to over-extend, and she hadn’t been well-trained, which would explain why she had snuck into the tent to kill a man she had no doubt hoped was sleeping. He felt himself relax, confident now. On her third attempt at striking him, he dodged beneath the sword, grabbed her sword arm with his left hand, and jerked her towards him, making her lose her balance, and pulled her against himself, wincing slightly at the contact of metal against his skin. With his right arm, standing behind her, he efficiently cut her throat. There was a gurgle and then the body went limp, and he released it, letting her crumple to the ground.  
For a long moment, he stood there breathing heavily, his arms covered in blood, hanging limply by his sides; but then two of the guards, who had heard Diphridas’ squeal, came rushing over with a cry which roused half the camp.  
‘Sir!’ one of them gasped, while the other just stared at the carnage in the tent. ‘What happened?’  
Brasidas was feeling light headed with the adrenaline surging through him but the soldier’s voice brought him back to himself. He turned and managed to say in his usual calm, firm way, ‘Wake the king, and tell him that Diphridas has been assassinated. The assassin has also been killed.’  
The first guard scurried away to do as he was told, and Brasidas said to the second, ‘Take the bodies to the medical tent, and have Diphridas and Namertes prepared for burial.’  
The guard nodded. ‘And the assassin?’  
Brasidas was suddenly very tired as the adrenaline began to leach out of him, and the reality of what had happened began to assert itself. He sternly told himself not to think about that now. There would be time later. He said to the guard, ‘Search the body for any clues to her identity and bring them to me. Throw the body in a ditch.’  
He went then to wash, preparing to inevitably attend the king thereafter.  
Sleep would, as usual, have to wait.

The Spartans remained in Attika for as long as they safely could with the supplies they could carry; having ravaged the farms of the plains of Demeter, they returned to Sparta. They would raid the land again further north before winter, planning to go right up to the border of Boeotia, who were firm allies, with the exception of Plataea; first, though, they had to return to Sparta to restock.  
The attempted assassination cast a long shadow over Brasidas, felt all the more once he was back in the city, and was no longer as busy as he had been on campaign. The assassin, a mercenary from Crete, had been carrying a document which had made it clear her purpose had been to kill Brasidas.  
It was the first time he had been targeted like that, though it would almost certainly not be the last. It was not the most comfortable realisation, he acknowledged; but such was the cost of being a war hero, famous now even outside Sparta.

A few days after their return, on an unpleasantly hot day, the Spartiates gathered together for a public sacrifice in honour of Diphridas. Eulogies would be made by the leading men, and unfortunately, Brasidas thought, that included him.  
From his position beside the kings, he looked out at the faces of the Assembly and the various classes of the agoge, wondering which were Diphridas’ sons, and wondering what they thought of their father’s death. Did they care? Did they already know the details, the true details? Or had they been told a lie, something making Diphridas sound courageous?  
He was considered to be one of the better speakers amongst the Spartiates; but even he had struggled to choose the right words under the circumstances. He knew that he couldn’t tell the truth; the memory that was uppermost in his mind was of Diphridas scrambling backwards, covered in his lover’s blood, and that awful, feminine squeal of fear. What was there of nobility and honour in that?  
‘Brasidas?’ Archidemos invited him.  
Brasidas stood up, his hands behind his back and said, ‘Few words are required to describe Diphridas, and few I shall use. He was a good man, a good Spartan. He honoured Sparta; he honoured the Gods; he surely walks in Elysium now.’  
He nodded and stepped back. He had supposed this would not be enough; but back in his position, all the eyes he met as he scanned the crowd before him looked back at him warmly; a few even nodded at him in acknowledgement.  
Perhaps he had said enough, after all.

Early Winter

Brasidas was talking with his mater in the second room of the house in Mesoa a couple of days after the army had returned to Sparta the second time that year, in the first days of winter.  
Argileonis was listening with great attention to his talk of the task he had been set for the following year. Archidemos had already assured him that he would be given a plum job: he was being sent to Achaea as an advisor to the Peloponnesian fleet there; it would be the first time he had had such a role, and he was working through what he thought he would be required to do there – and what he should expect from the fleet commander, Cnemus.  
She said nothing of course, but she was a good listener, and he found relief and could set his thoughts in order just by talking through what he was thinking. What she made of that, he didn't know.  
Suddenly, he heard a noise from the next room, which was the kitchen and food store, and looking at her intently, he held his finger to his lips.  
On silent feet, he snuck over to the open door, and stepped inside; he tensed, intending to grab the thief he found raiding their food stores.  
The slender young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age, was standing with a loaf of bread in his hand. He swung around as Brasidas cleared his throat, his eyes wide with terror.  
He was at that age when the softness of youth had already given way to the more pronounced lines of manhood, but what struck Brasidas most was the obvious likeness to Diphridas. He must be one of the murdered ephor’s sons, and as he was clearly no Krypteia, it was presumably the younger son, Thaletas.  
Against his own firm beliefs, which would have him take the boy by the arm and drag him to the leader of his class to be flogged for getting caught, Brasidas felt a surge of pity. Had it not been for the death of his father and what Brasidas alone had witnessed of that pitiful end, he would not have been so soft.  
He said quietly, ‘You’ve been very bold, but you aren’t supposed to get caught.’ He allowed himself a small smile, aware of his own weakness at that moment; the result of the strange, shadowy sadness which was hovering around him, and had been since the murder.  
Thaletas didn’t say anything, just began moving back towards the open window, his back to the wall defensively, not taking his eyes off Brasidas.  
Behind the terror, Brasidas noticed that there was something else – a kind of awe, he supposed. That reputation of his again, he thought wryly. He said, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone I caught you; but next time, remember that hunger slows your reflexes and leads to making foolish mistakes. You should always eat something before going on a raid.’  
Thaletas hadn’t ceased in his transit to the window, and almost before Brasidas had finished speaking, he was gone.  
Brasidas closed the shutter once more, and sighed deeply.  
With determination, he turned his thoughts back to his planning for the coming season; there was too much still to be arranged to fall into bleak thoughts. The shadow could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> Brasidas was an ephor in either 431 or 430BCE – there is conflict between my sources, so I decided to place it following the commendation, because that made sense to me as a possible contributing factor to his being voted in; though his pro-war stance which chimed with the general feeling amongst the Equals no doubt also helped.  
> What happened during his ephorate isn’t recorded exactly; however, we know that two ephors did travel with the king when he rode out with the army, presumably so they could ensure he was behaving in accordance with the laws, and to renew his oaths each month; so there is every chance that, if Brasidas’ ephorate did in fact happen in 430, he went with Archidemos to ravage Attika twice that summer. Details come from Thucydides, of course.  
> Diphridas is an invented character, as are the details of the eulogies spoken after his death. As far as I know, only the kings were buried with pomp and ceremony, but as the ephors were so important, I imagine a man who died in office must have had his passing marked in some way. I might be wrong!  
> References to the men who were married and had children having never seen their wives come from Xenophon and Plutarch, and Cartledge after them. Mind-blowing fact though, isn’t it?


	5. Korinthia

429 BCE

Spring

Brasidas arrived in Korinthia in late Spring, and went immediately up to the fort on the Akrokorinth, where the Spartan garrison welcomed him warily; wondering, no doubt, what he was doing there. It was well known that he was supposed to be advising the fleet in Achaea, but things had not gone as Sparta had planned.

Brasidas had been preparing to go to Cnemus, who had been at Stratus in the north, where he’d been engaged in a land sortie against a group of ‘barbarian’ tribes there, when word reached Sparta that the Peloponnesian fleet of forty-seven ships, which had been on its way from Korinthia to collect Cnemus and his land army, had been attacked by the Athenians in the Korinthian Gulf – and with only twenty ships, the Athenians had carried the day.  
Archidemos, himself preparing to march into Attika with the land army to ravage the plains again before laying siege to the walled city of Plataea, a loyal ally of Athens, was furious. He and the new ephors ordered three commissioners to travel to Pellene, where Cnemus had been ordered to join what remained of the fleet, and take overall command.  
Brasidas had remained calm while many in Sparta were angrily denouncing anyone who had had a hand in the losing battle. He couldn’t help thinking that there were understandable reasons why they’d lost. This had been the Peloponnesians first attempt at naval battle in unfamiliar waters, and an unexpected confrontation at that. The ships hadn’t been fully armed, but were mostly fitted out as troop carriers. The commander of the fleet, he allowed, had perhaps been foolishly complacent, assuming that the Athenians wouldn’t attack his superior numbers; or even, as many said in Sparta, he had been cowardly; but if he had, he was now at the bottom of the sea for his failings.  
Brasidas was certain the deciding factor had been the one that no one was willing to mention: sheer inexperience against the strongest navy on water. To admit that would be to admit that Sparta as a military force could fail though, rather than just pointing the bone at just one man.  
Lack of success in any kind of military engagement, he thought, more often than not came down to a lack of training and experience. He kept this thought to himself though.  
The king’s instructions to the advisors had been straightforward: prepare Cnemus and the fleet for battle, and never again allow a small number of ships to deny the Peloponnesians the sea. Brasidas had thought privately that what that really meant was: Don’t lose again, or it’ll be your heads.

He was shown at once to the fort Commander, a man called General Bardas.  
‘Brasidas,’ he said, coming across the open space outside the headquarters building to meet him. ‘What brings you to Korinthia?’  
‘I’ve come from Achaea,’ he said. ‘I’m here to persuade the council to provide us with support for the fleet at Pellene. I understand they city assembly has been resistant about sending further ships?’  
He shook his head. ‘Yes – things are difficult in the city at the moment. You’ll have trouble using the usual channels.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘What’s going on?’  
‘Come into my office and I’ll explain.’  
They were soon ensconced with a cup of wine each, and Bardas commenced, ‘We have a troublemaker in the city, the Monger. He’s been around for years, but in recent months, he’s managed to get a stranglehold on our strongest supporters on the city council. I’m not sure how, but they are wavering. His goons are everywhere, causing all kinds of disturbance. There’s even a rumour they’ve been abducting people and torturing them in some kind of rape dungeon.’ Seeing Brasidas’ surprise, he half shrugged. ‘A rumour only, I hope, but it has certainly created unrest amongst the people. Even Aphrodite’s hetaerae are hiding these days, forced to do business surreptitiously. He needs to be stopped.’  
Brasidas said, ‘What has been done so far?’  
‘During the winter, we arrested his closest associates. We tried to stir the polis to action, armed the citizens, but despite the help of some influential men and women who side with us in wanting him dead, nothing came of it. The people are terrified of him – and with good cause.’  
‘Then he must be removed, and quickly,’ Brasidas said firmly. ‘Sparta needs those ships in Achaea.’  
Bardas nodded slowly. ‘Quickly, yes, but Sparta also wants this done quietly. You know how Korinthia is about their place in the Peloponnesian League, and their resentment of Sparta. We don’t want anything to increase that feeling – showing our hand in his removal would be a very dangerous move, as would any more general uprising.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘Arming the people and trying to get them to rebel was a strange decision then?’  
He hastily said, ‘Well - yes. But one of their most prominent citizens, a woman called Anthousa, was pushing for the death to be made a spectacle – she wanted him stabbed before the people in the theatre, by the gods.’ He shook his head. ‘Many of the men supported the idea, too. I made it clear that couldn’t occur, and they reluctantly agreed with me. I don’t think Anthousa has given up the idea though, because there’s now a mercenary in the city causing all kinds of chaos, and we know that Anthousa brought him here. They call him the Eagle Bearer.’  
Brasidas raised his eyebrows. ‘The Eagle Bearer? Alexios the Eagle Bearer?’  
Bardas nodded tersely. ‘You know him?’  
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Brasidas corrected. ‘He was Sparta’s champion in taking Megaris.’  
Bardas said hopefully, ‘Then he’s on our side?’  
Brasidas shrugged, thinking that it was highly unlikely, if as his father supposed the man had been the boy thrown from the mountain, and who had in fact killed Nikolaos; but he said, ‘I don’t know.’  
Bardas leant forward. ‘If you could talk to him, maybe you could persuade him to do as we wish, rather than what Anthousa is no doubt asking of him.’  
Brasidas nodded vaguely, lost in thought. It was a lot to ask, he thought, but until the Monger was dealt with one way or another, he wouldn’t be able to complete his mission; and the longer it took him, the worse the situation would be with the fleet.

In the days that followed, in between trying unsuccessfully to talk with the members of the Korinthian Assembly who were known to be Spartan sympathisers, he made it his business to familiarise himself with the Monger’s operations – talking to people, poking around buildings that were reported to be kept in his name, and generally looking for any cracks in the man’s defences. That was how, early one evening, he found himself sneaking into a compound at the edge of the city which included a warehouse and a ship building slipway. He wasn’t intending to start any trouble; he’d heard that the Monger used the place to imprison people he snatched from the street... he was just going to take a look.  
He had reached the warehouse unseen, and looking through an open window, he saw several women tied up and kneeling in one corner. Four of the Monger’s men were on watch, though not particularly attentive. He moved along the building, wondering how he might free the poor creatures. He was still pondering whether he should go back to the fort and bring some soldiers with him to seize the women, when there was a sudden uproar.  
He looked through the window again and saw a man, armed with a broken spear in one hand, and a sword in the other, squaring up to fight the men who had been standing guard, and more were coming towards the warehouse from the direction of the slipway.  
Brasidas’ impulse was to help; there was no way one man would have been able to face them all, no matter how self-assured he clearly was. There was a crackling sound coming from upstairs, and the strong scent of smoke. For a moment, he wondered what was burning; but then he took a breath and leapt through the window, and attacked.

The warehouse was a smoking wreck behind them. With half an eye watching for anyone who might be drawn by the flames, the rest of Brasidas’ attention rested firmly on the man before him. Brasidas had begun the fight uncertain where it might lead; he had though for a moment as he leapt through the window that he was going to save the man he saw facing the Monger’s men; but as soon as he’d began to move, Brasidas knew he was wrong, that this must be Alexios and the reports of his efficiency weren’t exaggerated. The misthios moved with grace and skill, with carefully controlled aggression. He and Brasidas moved in perfect concert, Alexios ducking, dodging, stabbing at just the right moment. How well he understood what Brasidas would do next was exhilarating, like a dance that should have needed much practice, but happened between them purely by instinct. It almost felt like they were playing together, and he’d found himself grinning. It was breathtaking.  
When it was over, Brasidas was full of adrenaline, and said a little too loud, ‘You fight like a Spartan! There’s resolve in you!’  
The other man said easily, tucking his broken spear away, ‘We have that in common.’  
Then Brasidas remembered. ‘I saw innocence trapped in the flames...’ he looked back at the warehouse.  
‘You mean the prisoners? I already freed them.’  
‘Ah!’ he said, wondering. If this was Alexios, this compassion surprised him, as did the easy familiarity. Somehow, just as when they fought together, they talked together as if they’d known each other a long time. Brasidas couldn’t explain it. He thanked Alexios for his quick thinking, praised him even.  
He nodded modestly. ‘My name’s Alexios. I’d thank you too if I knew who you were.’  
There, Brasidas thought. Just as he’d supposed.   
‘Brasidas of Sparta. You’re new to Korinth.’ He said it as a statement, though he knew Alexios had been there longer than he had.  
Alexios was smiling. ‘You’re a spy too.’ Also a statement.  
Brasidas smiled back. ‘An old Spartan tactic.’ He grinned, and said playfully, ‘I have my ways.’  
Alexios grinned. ‘I get the sense that’s a Korinthian hobby. Anthousa has her hetaerae watching from every post.’  
‘Ah. Anthousa,’ he said. ‘We disagree, but have a common enemy.’  
Alexios said darkly, ‘The Monger.’  
Brasidas nodded. ‘We agree he should be killed, but we differ on how.’  
Alexios asked casually, though he looked at him with intensity, ‘What do you want to do with him?’  
Brasidas was suddenly aware that if he could persuade Alexios to do what Sparta wanted, their problem would be fixed. He had no doubt that Alexios was capable. ‘I want to replace him with minimal bloodshed.’  
Alexios looked as though he was considering this; he said, ‘He’ll only be dethroned if he’s killed. That’s obvious.’  
Brasidas nodded. ‘Yes. Diplomacy isn’t something he understands.’ He considered how much he should tell him, but he saw in him a man who would appreciate directness, and took a gamble. ‘We arrested his top men. Armed the citizens. Tried to stir the polis against him. It never came to be.’ He paused, finding himself smiling again as he mimed what he described, ‘The only thing to try... is a quick slice of the blade.’  
Alexios smiled back. ‘That would do it.’  
Brasidas added, ‘We should lure him into Korinthia’s Sacred Cave, and it’d be over.’  
Alexios raised a brow, as if to say, we? Then his face clouded. ‘I was Spartan once... until I was thrown off Mount Taygetos as a child and left for dead.’ There was a hint of challenge in the words, as if to say, why should I do what you ask?  
Brasidas said, treading carefully, ‘You’re the son of General Nikolaos. Everyone in Sparta knows your name; and here you are, alive. Many would have said that’s impossible.’ Including me, he added wryly to himself  
Alexios was looking out to sea as he said, ‘I survived. I raised myself alone while life continued in Sparta.’  
There was bitterness there, but no real resentment. Brasidas felt safe enough to suggest, ‘Those of good character will forgive, and should be forgiven - even in Sparta.’  
He sighed, as if dismissing that as improbable. He looked at Brasidas then, and said, ‘I’m here because I’m on the hunt for my mother, Myrrine, and the only way is through Anthousa. You don’t know anything about her, do you?’  
The hint of hope in his voice was poignant, but Brasidas slowly shook his head. ‘I know that no one should have to endure so much tragedy alone, and I heard she left Sparta that night; but no one has forgotten Myrrine.’  
Half to himself, Alexios said, ‘I think she wanted them to forget,’ before glancing at Brasidas with a certain watchfulness about him as he said, ‘You know Nikolaos?’  
‘Everyone in Sparta knows of Nikolaos. A good general, a good Spartan.’  
Something tightened in Alexios’ jaw as he said, ‘And rewarded for his loyalty.’  
Feeling a clenching in his gut, Brasidas wondered if this was an admission. He watched Alexios’ face closely as he continued, ‘He disappeared, and his body was never found. The kings pronounced him dead.’  
There was something then in the misthios’ eyes as he looked at Brasidas that the Spartan couldn’t read - and Alexios said softly, ‘That’s alright. I haven’t seen him since I was a boy, and there’s no going back now.’  
Brasidas wondered; was it sadness after all? He found himself saying comfortingly, ‘The displaced can always find their way home.’ He wondered if that was really true; he wondered if he really knew what home was anymore. Once, it had been the place he shared with Zoe; but since then, the truth was the war had claimed him, body and mind, and home was just the place he went each winter to plan and work towards the following campaigning season. He pushed that aside, aware that he was talking to himself as much as Alexios now, ‘The gods have just decided you must fight for it.’  
Alexios shook his head and rather wistfully said, ‘They couldn’t make it any easier?’  
Brasidas felt himself smiling despite himself. He said, ‘Chin up, Spartan. Easy doesn’t exist.’  
Alexios smiled back, and after a moment, said, ‘Goodbye, Brasidas.’  
‘We’ll meet again. I’m in the fight with you. Show courage.’ He rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, then turned back towards the town.

Early Summer

Brasidas woke from sleep in one of the upstairs rooms in Akrokorinth Fort, and for a long moment he couldn’t figure out why; then he saw the figure silhouetted against the window.  
He sat up quickly, grabbing his dagger, his heart pounding as he remembered another time, when he’d woken to a shadowy figure in the night…  
Alexios said, ‘Don’t panic. It’s just me.’  
‘You shouldn’t sneak in like that,’ he said gruffly, ‘What are you doing here?’ He put the dagger away, and consciously made himself relax. The two men had met many times since the warehouse, and they had grown close; the first easy friendship had solidified over shared wine, and shared stories of the light-hearted variety. It was as though they both recognised the need for relief from the grimness all around them. For the first time in a long time, Brasidas had found himself laughing until he had tears in his eyes. He had even thanked the gods more than once for such an unlooked-for blessing in that city. His business remained serious and pressing, but he looked forward to seeing Alexios as he had once looked forward to going home – a feeling he could not, and did not try, to acknowledge to himself.  
Alexios moved away from the window into total darkness. There was the sound of armour hitting stone. He had obviously sat down. He said, ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you seriously, and the time is slipping through my fingers...’  
Brasidas was struck by his sombre tone, very unlike him, though he was slurring slightly. He frowned. ‘You’ve been drinking.’  
Alexios said, ‘Don’t worry about that.’  
Brasidas suddenly asked, ‘How did you get in here?’  
‘This fort is the easiest to get into in all of Greece. As to how I got into this room – well, I climbed.’  
‘You climbed? Up three floors of sheer wall? Drunk?’  
‘Exactly,’ he said, before abruptly saying, ‘But forget about that. Since I met you, since we’ve become friends, I can’t stop thinking about Sparta, and I need you to tell me what I want to know.’  
‘Alright,’ Brasidas said quietly, wondering where this was going.  
‘You know I have every reason to hate Sparta, and… except for you of course… all Spartans...’  
He left that hanging, and Brasidas, after a lengthy wait, prompted, ‘And?’  
He seemed to have changed direction when he said, ‘I know you and everyone else thinks I killed Nikolas, and I… you know what, I just let them think it – even you. I’ve asked myself why I don’t correct them.’ He paused, before continuing more darkly, ‘I should have done it. He killed me, really - in his mind, he dropped me with his own hand. I was supposed to be dead. But when I had the chance, when he was right there, I let him live. Why did I do that? He deserved to die.’  
Brasidas sighed. Without thinking, he said, ‘Mercy isn’t weakness, Alexios.’  
There was a pause before he said softly, ‘That’s not very Spartan of you.’  
He realised uncomfortably that that was true. ‘I don’t suppose it is; but it’s the truth. He was only acting in the way Sparta demanded. He was never the same after that night – everyone saw the change in him.’  
Alexios scoffed and said sarcastically, ‘I’m sure he was devastated.’  
Brasidas said softly, ‘Do you really think he lost his whole family lightly?’  
He sounded defiant. ‘Spartans don’t believe in family. Spartan law comes first.’  
Brasidas laughed. ‘Don’t we? You had better tell my parents that; if she were still alive, you might have told my wife too.’ He shook his head. ‘The Spartan laws don’t stop people caring for one another, even if we do things differently to the rest of the Greek world. We still love and hate like everyone else – we just fight better than they do.’  
Alexios snorted at that, but was quiet for a long moment before he asked, ‘Do you think Nikolaos was right to throw me off the mountain?’  
He sighed again. ‘I don’t know the details of what happened up there. I was too young to take much interest. I do know that I would feel conflicted if I had a son, and was ordered to throw him from the mountain for some trespass against the state.’ He was quiet for a moment, before saying very quietly, ‘The truth is, I think your father is a better Spartan than I am. I don’t think I could do it.’ Amazed at himself for admitting this, he added quickly, ‘Luckily, I don’t have any sons.’  
Alexios said softly, ‘Then you’re a better man than Nikolaos is, even if you aren’t a better Spartan.’ He paused for a long moment before he continued, ‘You should know, I have good reasons to kill the Monger in the theatre as Anthousa wishes.’  
‘Yes – you told me you needed information from her about Myrrine’s whereabouts.’  
‘That’s one reason,’ he said softly. ‘There’s another I haven’t mentioned.’ He sounded embarrassed as he said, ‘I have a lover, Timotheos, in Kechries. He’s in debt to a bandit chief called Diagoras. I promised Diagoras to kill the Monger in public. If I don’t do it, he’s threatened my lover and his brother with paying the debt in blood.’  
Brasidas grimaced at this. ‘You’ve decided then?’  
Alexios said, ‘I hadn’t until now. I just wanted you to know the risk I’m running by doing what you’ve asked of me. I wanted to know that my instincts were right, that you deserve my loyalty.’ He stood then, the sound of his shifting armour guiding Brasidas’ eyes towards the window, where Alexios’ silhouette appeared once more. He made to climb out the window, but paused on the sill. ‘I’ll kill the Monger in the cave – but I’m not doing it for Sparta, Brasidas.’  
Uneasily, Brasidas said, ‘You mean… you’ll sacrifice your lover for…’ He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘me’, afraid of what the idea might really mean...  
Alexios sounded more like his usual self as he said lightly, ‘Don’t get too full of your own importance, Brasidas. I’ll get to them before Diagoras hears a word.’  
Then he jumped out the window, disappearing into the night.  
Brasidas sat for a long while after that, flooded with contrary feelings, none of which he wanted to face up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've reworked dialogue from the game, and while I would generally not do that at all, this was a pretty important junction between these two characters, so I felt bound to do it. I tried to change their conversation as little as possible - just a few tweaks to have it match my slightly altered version of events, including a shift in tone here and there. 
> 
> Historical notes:  
> The details of the failed naval battle etc. come from Thucydides. It's not impossible, historically speaking, that Brasidas was sent to Korinthia to shore up support for the refitting of the navy in Achaea under Cnemus' command, though perhaps unlikely.


	6. The Whispers of Ambition

429 BC

Autumn

The Spartan fleet lay at anchor just off the coast of Panormos in Achaea – now numbering seventy-seven ships, anchored in four rows, like soldiers on the march. Across the bay, just off the coast of Boeotia, the twenty Athenian ships which had won the battle earlier in the year were moored.  
Brasidas stood on deck beside Cnemus, a light frown furrowing his brow, looking across at the enemy.  
They’d been in position for five days, each day expecting that the battle would come, but Brasidas and the other advisors had at last been forced to conclude that they were engaged in a standoff. They knew that the Athenians were hoping that, in order to lure them into battle, the Spartans would sail out of the shelter of the bay and into open water. As the superior navy, experienced both in these waters specifically, as well as in deep water generally, that would give them the advantage.  
The Spartans, on the contrary, wanted the Athenians to enter the shallower and narrower reaches of the gulf, closer to Korinthia, where there was less room to manoeuvre, and less dramatic seas – one of the factors which had led to the morale-crushing loss earlier in the year.  
Brasidas had been uneasy with doing nothing because Sparta would have numerical superiority only until the time Athens could send more ships, and that was only a matter of time. They were all surprised that none had come yet. There was a rumour that a fleet had left Athens but had been waylaid on a mission to Crete – but Brasidas was not alone in thinking that that report must be wrong.  
He had laid awake the night before thinking about what they could do to force a confrontation, but on terms that would suit Sparta. In any situation like this was an opportunity - an opportunity Ambition would not let him ignore.  
‘I’ve had an idea,’ he suddenly said to Cnemus. ‘Though I’ve yet to discuss it with Timocrates and Lycophron...’ he trailed off, waiting to see what the admiral would say. The two men he mentioned were his fellow advisors to the fleet; both rather older than Brasidas and much more conservative. What he left unsaid, because Cnemus would be able to fill in the blanks himself, was that he hadn’t told them because they’d made it clear that, as far as they were concerned, Brasidas was nothing but an upstart and he’d only been given the position because of his father, and the favouritism of Archidemos - certainly not because of anything he’d done himself.  
Undistinguished men, Brasidas had discovered, often treated him like that since he’d received the commendation for his actions at Methone; as though his saving that beleaguered town had had nothing more to it than dumb luck. He felt rather sorry for them. Why they thought treating him poorly somehow made them look better, he could not say.  
Cnemus didn’t respond immediately, but continued to stare across the water. He too was older than Brasidas, and Brasidas wondered whether it bothered him to have to listen to the advice of a younger man; if it did, he hid it well. Brasidas had, since returning from Korinth to join the fleet, first at Kylene in Elis, made a point of treating Cnemus well. The other two advisors, it had been apparent, had been on his case – running him down, as though it had been him who’d lost the earlier battle. They held the threats of the Gerousia over his head any time he disagreed with them.  
Foolishness, Brasidas thought. The man didn’t need to be threatened, but gently led in the right direction. He’d seized the opportunity in that too, and he now thought it was time to use the good will he had accrued. He waited, hoping.  
After a moment, Cnemus said quietly, ‘I’m listening.’  
‘Naupactus.’  
He glanced at Brasidas and said, ‘What about it?’ but Brasidas could see in his eyes that he immediately grasped something of Brasidas’ thoughts. Naupactus was a small town, further eastwards along the gulf, and lay firmly in Athenian territory.  
‘If we want to bring the Athenians into the bay, we can do that by sailing the fleet towards the town. They’ll assume we’re going to attack, and they’ll have to sail in to defend it. If we position our ships strategically, we can force them to sail close to the shoreline...’  
Cnemus considered this, looking away to the east. Brasidas could see he liked the idea, but cautiously, he suggested, ‘They’ll outrun us.’  
Brasidas said with a slight smile, ‘Ah - but not if we dedicate one wing to our fastest ships, and have them form the vanguard.’  
Cnemus slowly nodded. ‘Let’s run it past the other two.’ He smiled a little then. ‘It’s a good plan Brasidas - daring, risky even - but we must make these bastards act – and this’ll do it.’

The next morning at dawn the men gathered on the ships. In the already shimmering heat of the coming day, there was a muted quality to their talk: orders were terse, no one chatted between themselves, everyone went directly to their posts and waited.  
Brasidas had more cause than most to worry. If the plan didn’t work and turned into another unmitigated disaster, he would be disgraced. Even if it was merely unsuccessful, then it was almost inevitable that Timocrates and Lycophron would use that as the only excuse they would need to discount any future plan he might concoct; though to his surprise, Timocrates had backed the plan in the end. Brasidas had seen that familiar gleam in Timocrates’ eyes, the lust for glory, so he was not surprised when he’d insisted that he should be in command of the vanguard. Cnemus had done his best to persuade him against taking such a dangerous position by saying he was too important to Sparta, but he was as stubborn as a mule. Lycophron, who’d determined to say no to the plan simply because Brasidas had suggested it, had given in only when he saw that Timocrates wouldn’t back him up, and had in fact sneered at his resistance. They’d all seen the word ‘coward’ hovering on Timocrates’ lips. Lycophron knew when he was beaten, at least. He had even felt compelled to take a place in the vanguard with Timocrates, against even Brasidas urging that he should not. The spectre of cowardice had reared its head; Lycophron would not be content until he had proven the opposite to be true in the most extreme way he could.  
Well, Brasidas thought as he took his place amongst the crew of a trireme, so much for Spartan politics; now they would see what the gods decided.  
A horn sounded, and the men began to row and chant in time, and Brasidas sang right along with them:  
On to battle! On to Fame!  
On to gain the Patriot name!  
On to Death if die you must  
But give the foe a parting thrust!

The bulk of the fleet moved east maintaining their formation, and it didn’t take long for the Athenians to take the bait. The twenty ships were moving quickly, and the Spartans allowed them to gain on them until they had many of them between the fleet and the shore. Then, just as they had practiced in training at Elis, trumpets passed the signal. They stopped, turned as one, and moved as quickly as they could row towards the Athenian ships.  
Brasidas braced himself, as did the crew around him. His trireme crunched into an Athenian ship, but not hard enough to hole it. The crew threw out grappling hooks, catching the two boats together, and in almost stony silence, they began the hard work of fighting on two decks of different heights; the Athenians were slightly above them, and they made the most of it, hailing the Spartans with javelins and arrows.  
Beneath his shield, between two Equals, Brasidas felt the lightness in his head that he always did in battle; his hands tingled, and his senses sharpened; he was watching and waiting for the right moment - and then he saw it - the chance he was looking for.  
The Athenians attention had become focussed at the point where the grappling hooks were attached; but the motion of the water had pushed the disconnected ends of the two ships into close proximity.  
Brasidas shouted, ‘Spartans! With me!’ And with a feeling of sheer adrenaline, he stepped up onto the rail and leapt.  
After that, it was all blood thundering in his ears, total focus on dodging strikes, thrusting, thrusting again. His spear broke, so he took out his short sword. The deck was slick with blood, so he had to tread with care, over and around the bodies of the dead.  
Then it was over. A cheer reached him through the haze of battle, and he wiped the sweat and gore from his face, and looking around, saw they had won; nine ships were theirs, some wrecked on the shore, some already under tow.  
He looked to the east, trying to make out where the rest of the ships had gone, but he could see nothing.  
He grinned at the nearest soldier and was just slapping him on the back when there was another shout, this one of a different character. ‘The Messenians!’  
Brasidas frowned, and then saw what they were talking about: a land army had come down to the sea, and were clamouring aboard the Athenian ships. They were fighting back, and gaining an advantage. They had to get the fuck out of there, before everything they’d gained was lost.  
‘Pass the order to pull back!’ Brasidas barked to the herald, who blew the signal, and ran back across the Athenian deck and leapt down onto his own ship.  
The sailors were close behind him, and within moments they were moving, and Brasidas saw from his position on the bridge that all the Spartan ships – thank the gods for the training in Elis – had been swiftly manned and begun to pull out to sea. The Messenians had succeeded in reclaiming most of the Athenian ships, only one was taken under tow - but the victory was still theirs, and that would mean everything in Sparta.  
They began the journey back to Panormos, singing a paean of victory this time. Brasiad felt elated, if exhausted. His strategy had worked. He was careful not to allow himself to engage in any kind of hubris, though. He was still concerned for the remainder of the fleet, out of sight presumably near Naupactus; but there had only been eleven Athenian ships, against twenty Spartan; surely they too had achieved victory.

He was wrong. Things had not gone so well with the rest of the fleet. Lycophron returned in the dusk with only fourteen ships, and many of those requiring immediate repairs.  
Cnemus, Brasidas and Lycophron gathered in the headquarters building at the Panormos Camp, and the Admiral demanded to know what had happened.  
Lycophron looked hangdog, his armour covered in gore and a nasty cut to one of his arms. He groaned. ‘You know that we – Timocrates on his ship, and I on mine – and the rest of the vanguard went after the eleven ships that slipped the noose. Well, to begin with, we thought there were ten, but then the eleventh came into the bay behind us, and began to harry the rear. I don’t know what he was thinking, but Timocrates had his ship go after it.’ He paused, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘There was a large merchantman anchored in the bay. The Athenian ship sailed around that merchantman, with Timocrates in pursuit; then somehow - and even having witnessed it, I cannot explain how this happened - the Athenian ship caught up with ours, and holed it, just like that. It sank like a stone, taking the crew with it. The worst of it was, it gave the Athenians new courage and they sailed out of Naupactus to attack us.’  
Cnemus frowned. ‘But surely they found you in formation and ready to do battle? You had nineteen ships to face them!’  
He looked at the ground as he mumbled, ‘Not as such, no.’  
The Admiral’s brow lowered as he said darkly, ‘What do you mean, not as such?’  
‘They found our ships in disarray, sir. Everyone celebrating, paeans were being sung. Some of the ships had their oars in the water, others were…’ He trailed off as he looked up and saw the anger on Cnemus’ face.  
Brasidas too was looking at the Admiral, wondering what he would do. He knew that Cnemus, who had put up with this man treating him like a dog for weeks on end, was unlikely to treat Lycophron gently. He snapped, ‘It was your job to pull them back! How many weeks did we train for just this set of circumstances?’ He demanded, ‘What were you doing while our ships were sinking, our men drowning, and Sparta’s otherwise total victory was being reduced to ashes?’  
Lycophron’s expression became more depressed. ‘My ship was stuck on a sandbank. Our herald was lost overboard - he took the horn with him.’  
Brasidas could see by the peculiar light in the Admiral’s eyes that Cnemus was feeling a certain amount of satisfaction in his tormentors fall from grace, even as he was wildly angry that he had made such a foolish mess of things. Brasidas stepped forward and rested a hand on his arm. He said calmly and quietly, ‘We should discuss this tomorrow, Admiral, when we’ve all had a chance to rest.’  
Cnemus looked at him, clearly considering telling him where to go, but there was something in Brasidas’ look which made him reconsider; after a moment, he grudgingly agreed. ‘Alright - we’ll reconvene in the morning to count our losses and to arrange a treaty with the Athenians to retrieve our dead.’  
Lycophron found it in himself to give Brasidas a glance which might have been gratitude – that was how Brasidas chose to take it, anyway – and slipped out of the room.  
When they were alone, Cnemus said grouchily, ‘What is it?’  
Brasidas said, ‘I understand your anger, and your loathing for that man; but before you have him sent back to Sparta to face the courts, there’s something you should consider.’  
‘Which is?’  
‘This was a victory for Sparta – a victory for you, as Admiral. If you send Lycophron to be prosecuted for his failures, you will draw undue attention to our losses instead, making our success seem less.’  
Cnemus looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes. ‘You think I should cover up his ineptitude?’  
He shook his head. ‘Put it in the reports, of course; but there’s no need to send him back to Sparta covered in shame. He will be grateful if you don’t – and gratitude can be more valuable than vengeance.’  
Brasidas could see him grappling with this idea, and in the end, he said, ‘I’m too tired to think about it now. I need sleep.’  
Brasidas watched him leave the room confident he would see the sense in what he’d advised; even if he didn’t, he supposed, there was still the victory. He sighed. He ached all over, and he went reluctantly to wash, though the temptation was to lay down just where he was and sleep.

Winter.  
The last weeks of summer had been quiet, with no further skirmishes between the two navies. A fleet of ships had joined the Athenians making it risky for the Spartans to fight anymore, and so they moved the fleet to Korinthia for the winter.  
Brasidas had hardly set foot back on solid ground when an ambassador from Megaris, named Proxenos, arrived and asked to speak with Cnemus and his advisors. Though the Admiral had seemed less than enthusiastic, Brasidas was very curious.  
Lycophron said coolly to the middle-aged man standing before them, ‘What is it that you want from us, Proxenos?’  
‘I have a proposition, sent to you, Admiral,’ here he nodded respectfully to Cnemus, ‘from our council to you.’  
Cnemus sounded tired; he always did, since Timocrates’ death. Brasidas had been watching him with concern. ‘Tell it. I’m listening.’  
‘You may be aware that Megaris has forty ships in dock. They have been blockaded by a force of ships from the Athenians at Salamis since the opening of the war.’  
Cnemus had not known this, but said, ‘What of it?’  
Brasidas though was bright-eyed, his brain running over the uses such boats might have.  
‘Our council suggests that your sailors here might be able to make use of them before they are sent home for the winter.’  
‘An attempt on the Piraeus!’ Brasidas said, trying to sound more thoughtful, and less excited, than he really was. Ambition streaked through him like quicksilver. ‘We could strike right at Athens’ very throat.’  
Lycophron looked at him with a face that plainly said he thought he was mad. ‘Oh, and shall we march a phalanx into the city through the walls while we’re at it?’  
Brasidas raised his brows. ‘Think about it. The Piraeus is unguarded simply because they think themselves safe. They believe that no one would dare, and even if they did, they would hear about the ships coming, whether by sea or across the Isthmus; but this time there would be no sign. It could be done.’  
Flatly, Lycophron said, ‘I think we’ve had enough of your daring plans, Brasidas.’  
Cnemus frowned. ‘You are not in charge here, Lycophron.’  
The advisor was cowed into silence, and angrily glared out the window.  
Cnemus continued to Proxenos, ‘We will discuss the matter, and have an answer for you before sundown.’  
He thanked them and left.  
Brasidas said, ‘Admiral, it is too good a chance to miss.’  
Cnemus sighed and stood, pouring himself a wine. ‘Lycophron clearly thinks it is too much.’ He looked from Brasidas to the other advisor and asked, ‘What would you suggest instead?’  
‘I think we should raid Salamis instead. Loot, ravage, remove the ships that guard Megaris.’  
‘Salamis,’ Brasidas scoffed. ‘What’s that worth, when we could torch their great port? Imagine how their morale would be destroyed!’  
Lycophron said, ‘Careful Brasidas; your lust for glory is showing.’  
Brasidas flushed. ‘And your cowardice is.’  
Lycophron shot to his feet. ‘How dare you!’  
‘Enough,’ Cnemus said quietly, and waited for Lycophron to sit again before he continued, ‘We’re all here for Sparta, and I am the one who decides.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, ‘Lycophron, fetch the herald. Have him tell the men to take their oar, their cushion and their oar strap and prepare to march to Megaris.’  
Lycophron went, and Cnemus said, ‘You’ve been lucky so far Brasidas. Do you think the gods will continue to favour you?’  
Brasidas rolled back on his heels, his hands behind his back, as he said good naturedly, ‘There’s only one way to find out, Admiral.’  
Cnemus said, ‘Then try your luck again. May the gods watch over you.’  
Brasidas felt a frisson of excitement; but he said coolly, ‘Thank you, Admiral. We’ll go at once.’

It was still dark when Brasidas and the sailors reached the ships that night. They’d travelled under the cover of darkness at great speed so as not to alert the Athenians to their movements. The Megarians opened the gates to them, and Proxenos, who was waiting for him, escorted Brasidas down to the ships. In the darkness of the night, it was impossible to tell what kind of condition the boats were in, but Brasidas had had misgivings about that. If, as the ambassador had said, they had been there since the outbreak of the war and the blockade of Megaris by Athens – the very act which had triggered the war to start in the first place – then they had not been in use for almost three years.  
As the ships were loaded, the oarsmen took their places, and the ships eased out into the strait between the mainland and the island of Salamis, Brasidas’ misgivings proved well founded - they were not sound. The timbers were heavy with water, or the caulking had dried and crumbled, making them leaky and slow.  
Grimly he acknowledged that it would be a very risky proposition – definitely too risky - to take such craft out into the choppier, windier seas near the Piraeus.  
He wished he had considered this before leaving Korinth; but he would just have to make the best of it. They would make for Salamis; just as Lycophron had wanted, he added to himself dryly.

In the early morning, a small fleet in disarray was seen coming from the Piraeus, and Brasidas, who was searching the fort polemarch’s personal papers at the time, took this as their cue to go back to Megaris.  
It had been a successful night in many ways. They’d succeeded in overrunning the garrison fort, and capturing the three triremes the Athenians kept there, which they found unmanned; they fired the fields and burnt the silos; they took prisoners and spoils.  
Most satisfying to Brasidas though was the moment when he had seen the beacons lit, and knew that right there, just across the water and right in heart of Athens, there would be sheer panic.  
As the ships pulled away from Salamis, he was still a little dissatisfied, or Ambition was… but the gods had made their feelings clear; and perhaps, he conceded, he really had had enough glory for one year.  
He felt the wind tossing his braid, and closed his eyes, feeling very tired. He found himself wishing that he would find Alexios back in Korinthia. He would have liked nothing better than to spend the afternoon drinking wine, laughing at the misthios’ foolish jokes, and feeling, just for a few hours, totally unbound by the strict code of being a Spartan.  
That was just a dream though, he told himself sternly opening his eyes once more. He had work to do.  
He would be in Korinthia for probably only a day or two, then would surely be sent back to Sparta for the winter, where all his old burdens were waiting for him. His pater would want to know every detail of what had occurred ten times over; his mater would be pushing for him to remarry; Archidemos would want him in council, working on his side...  
There was nothing ahead of him but work, and that was just what a good Spartan would wish for, should actively embrace... So why did he find himself resenting the idea?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> All the details of the naval conflict, including the names of the Admiral and advisors, are taken from Thucydides. We have no idea which part of the battle Brasidas was involved in, nor the other advisors; they were certainly involved though.  
> The report which Brasidas didn't believe of Athens sending her fleet to Crete before Boeotia was true. They got held up there by the weather.  
> The 'war chant' I've used is a poem written by the Spartan poet Tyrtaeus; the translation is an early twentieth century one, but no doubt it leaves something to be desired as a translation, as rhyming poems made from ancient ones generally do. [For example, I've seen the Latin word for 'herbs' translated as 'shampoo' to achieve a rhyme.]


	7. The Official Story

428 BC  
Mid Summer

Brasidas was walking up to the Temple of Athena Chalkioikos lost in thought. It was early evening, and he had just finished eating at the mess, where the few Equals who hadn’t already departed for various fronts of the war ate in quiet comraderie. He liked to walk up to the temple and pay his respects to the goddess before going home; it was a chance to be alone – a rare chance in his busy life – and gather his thoughts. In the previous months, he had come to discover there were some things he couldn’t share with his mater, and that whole situation was weighing heavily on him.  
In the first place, it had felt strange to be remaining behind in Sparta when the armies marched out. It was the first time since the outbreak of the war that he had been passed over in the vote, and it was all due to the mixed reception to the results of the naval battle at Panormos.  
It was just as well, he thought. He didn’t relish the idea of being involved in the sack of Plataea, which had been going on since the previous year; and nor had he wanted to go out to the Silver Islands, where a unit had been sent in answer to a call for assistance. The Gerousia had heard short weeks later that disaster had met that force – shipwrecked, and left with only a young hoplite as general.  
Brasidas shook his head. When he’d been told that this new general was Thaletas, son of Diphridas, he had thought it unlikely that things would end well, because Diphridas’ own assessment still rung in Brasidas’ ears and besides that, he remembered the young man as a skinny teenager. The whole city had been pleasantly surprised when the news reached them that the islands had been secured for Sparta. What didn’t surprise Brasidas was that it was also reported that the Eagle Bearer had been the champion in the decisive battle. He didn’t say so to anyone, not wishing to take away from the young general’s success, but he did think Alexios’ presence explained a lot.  
It was the strangest thing – even as he had this thought, he glanced towards the House of Leonidas away on his right, where a stable stood beside the main thoroughfare, and recognised the black mount that was being rubbed down by a helot. It was Phobos; no other horse he’d ever seen had such wild plaits in its mane, nor a more elaborate saddle, which was propped at a tilt against the fence nearby.  
He turned aside, following the street towards the famous hero-king’s house.  
He saw them before he could hear them – but he had been right. Alexios was talking with a small, grey haired woman. It had to be Myrrine. There had been talk that she had been seen in Sparta.  
Alexios was saying, ‘She turned out stronger than we thought...’ Then he saw Brasidas, and smiled.  
For a moment Brasidas felt his spirits lift. He really was back in Sparta. He said, ‘The gods must be playing tricks on my eyes!’  
Alexios said warmly, ‘Good to see you, Brasidas.’ They clasped hands as he continued, ‘It’s been a long time since I rescued you from that warehouse fire in Korinth.’  
It had been near enough to twelve months, but it felt like a lifetime, Brasidas thought; but he chuckled at his cheek. ‘That’s not how I remember it.’  
Myrrine said, ‘You look well, Brasidas.’  
He was surprised that she remembered him at all; but she had always been renowned for knowing everyone in Sparta. Being part of the royal household would do that, he supposed. ‘The rumours were true then,’ he said, glancing at Alexios so that she would know the rumours had come from him, ‘You are alive.’  
She nodded. ‘Many we think are dead are surely still breathing.’  
Brasidas turned back to Alexios as he said, ‘When I heard the two of you were home...’  
Myrrine interrupted. ‘We’re back in Sparta, but we’re not home yet.’  
Brasidas rocked back onto his heels. ‘Yes. Sparta claimed your estate after Nikolaos’ disappearance.’ He tried not to look at Alexios when he said this, but he couldn’t help it. He wondered if he’d told Myrrine that Nikolaos was still alive. He continued, ‘They’re waiting for his adoptive son to claim the estates, but he’s yet to return from the war.’  
‘Stentor,’ Alexios said with a shake of his head. ‘What do we need to do to get it back?’  
Brasidas said gravely, ‘You’ll need to negotiate your Spartan citizenship with the kings. It won’t be easy. As happy as I am to see you, the kings won’t be. Especially Archidemos.’ He looked at Myrrine. ‘From what I hear, your exit from Sparta wasn’t exactly graceful.’  
Myrrine’s eyes twinkled with mischief. Brasidas could see where Alexios got it from. ‘He can’t still be mad I broke his nose?’  
Alexios looked at her, startled. ‘You what?’  
Myrrine just smiled at her son, and Brasidas shook his head. He said, ‘In any case, he hasn’t forgotten, but I have an idea that might help him forgive.’  
He told them then the very barest outlines of his work - that someone was giving the helots weapons and stirring them to revolt, and whoever removed the troublemakers would earn some credit with the kings.  
Alexios frowned. ‘Alright; but tell me...’  
Myrrine interrupted them. ‘I can see you two need to talk. I’ll go to my sister’s if you need me, lamb. I need sleep.’ She said goodbye to both of them and went away into the city.  
Brasidas said, ‘I'll give you all the details, but we should talk this over privately - in Sparta, you never know who’s listening...’ Then he grinned. ‘Not to mention I have a particularly good wine at home that I suspect you’ll enjoy.’  
Alexios shook his head with mock solemnity. ‘A personal store of wine? In Sparta?’  
Brasidas looked at him with one eyebrow raised. ‘A man has to get through the politics somehow.’  
He set off towards Mesoa, Alexios keeping pace with him.  
‘Tell me about your travels since Korinth,’ Brasidas said. ‘The last I heard of you, the Monger was dead and you had sailed to the islands. I did hear a rumour you were involved in the taking of the Silver Islands?’  
There was a moment of silence and Brasidas glanced at him in the dim moonlight. His face was tense. ‘Everything went wrong,’ he said.  
Brasidas came to a stop, and said, ‘Everything?’  
Alexios nodded, swallowing hard. ‘Diagoras got to Kechries first.’  
Brasidas said in a strained voice, ‘And Timotheos? His brother?’  
He just shook his head before hurrying on, recommencing walking. ‘Then I went to the islands. I tracked mater down in Naxos - she was the leader there,’ he fondly shook his head, a smile quirking one side of his mouth. ‘Once the island was secure, I moved on, agreeing to meet her here.’  
‘I see,’ Brasidas said.  
Something in his face tightened, and he said, ‘And then yes. I assisted Sparta in the campaign on Mykonos and Delos.’ Half to himself, he added grimly, ‘For all the thanks it gained me.’  
He sounded angry, Brasidas thought. ‘How so?’  
He shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Anyway, that’s enough about me. I suppose you’ve been lounging around Sparta sipping fine wine since we last met?’  
Brasidas chuckled. ‘Something like that. Hmm. Let me see. In the summer, I fought in a successful naval battle near Korinth - Sparta’s first naval victory. At the beginning of winter, I raided the island of Salamis right under Athens’ nose; and apparently, I would have taken the Piraeus, but didn’t.’  
‘What do you mean?’  
He grinned, teeth flashing in the moonlight. ‘Do you want the rumoured story, or the true story?’  
Alexios laughed. ‘Tell me both.’  
‘The rumours have it that if I had been the admiral, I would have sailed straight into the Piraeus and carried the day, but it’s “well known” that the actual admiral who I was merely advising was too afraid and so Salamis was opted for instead.’  
‘And the true story?’  
Brasidas smiled. ‘The boats were three years out of use, and the winds were high.’  
Alexios laughed again. ‘I don’t suppose you waste much breath on correcting the rumours?’  
‘I tried at first, but it just made people think I was being modest.’ He shrugged. ‘People believe what they want to believe. I’ve been back in Sparta since then – since the beginning of winter - but not sipping wine – well, not much. There’s always work to be done here. Archidemos relies on me; and there’s definitely something going on here that I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of.’  
‘What’s that?’  
They’d reached Mesoa, and his house. Brasidas said, ‘Come in. We’ll talk once we have a wine in our hands.’

Brasidas introduced Alexios to his mater, who as usual, was waiting for Brasidas to get home. She looked Alexios up and down in a very sharp-eyed way. Brasidas could see she knew who he was immediately, but she said pleasantly enough, ‘Welcome to our home, Alexios of Sparta.’  
Alexios smiled his most winning smile. ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’  
Argileonis flushed a little, which made Brasidas smother a smile. Even his mater wasn’t immune to the charms of this man. He would give her a gentle teasing the next chance he got.  
Brasidas said, ‘Come into the next room. I’ll fetch the wine.’  
When they were settled, Alexios prompted, ‘So, what's this work you’re so secretive about?’  
‘As I said, there’s someone in the army who is providing the helots with arms. Now, I started out thinking that he must be a lone operator, but…’ He trailed off, then seemed to change direction entirely. ‘You know Pausanias well?’  
Alexios frowned. ‘He’s my cousin, as you must know. I remember him as a boy – self-important, and not good at sharing. As an adult, our paths have yet to cross. Why?’  
He said, ‘What I am about to tell you must stay between us.’  
Alexios nodded solemnly. ‘Of course.’  
‘For some time now, I’ve suspected that Pausanias has some other agenda than the good of Sparta.’  
Alexios narrowed his eyes a little and leant forward in his seat. ‘You have? Why?’  
Brasidas looked at him for a moment without answering. ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ he observed.  
Alexios sat back then. ‘No. I’ve… heard some things.’  
He was alert to the implications of this statement, ‘What things?’  
‘Where to start?’ Alexios said, half to himself. ‘For the past few years, I’ve been on the trail of a certain group of people – an obscure cult, the members of which are intent on destroying the Greek world. They create division in a state, then play one side off the other, while getting rich themselves. It was the cult who paid off the Pythia to have my sister thrown off Mount Taygetos.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘Why?’  
He smiled briefly. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’ Then he sobered. ‘My sister is still alive, and she’s the champion of the cult. They stole her from us, twisted her into a creature barely human.’ He shook his head grimly. ‘Mater expects me to save her. I don’t think that’s possible.’ Brasidas saw sadness and doubt in his eyes. ‘I suppose I should have told you back in Korinth, but it felt like saying too much. The Monger was a member of the cult.’  
Brasidas sat for a moment, looking at the floor, considering what he'd just told him. It was a lot to take in.  
Alexios continued, ‘While tracking these evil malakas down, I’ve had some evidence that one, or both, of the Spartan kings are involved in the cult.’  
Brasidas stared at him. He felt – he couldn’t even say what he felt. Anger mostly, leavened with instinctive defensiveness of Sparta’s honour. With an effort, he pushed that aside; he had no reason to doubt that Alexios was telling the truth – on the contrary. It made some sense. He’d thought Pausanias had been manoeuvring to create trouble internally, but it wasn’t a huge leap to see that he might be intent on doing more serious damage to Sparta and beyond. He sighed, just to ease the tension in his own chest.  
Alexios said gently, ‘Sorry to lay this on you. I know you’re a good Spartan – this is probably a lot to accept.’  
Brasidas slowly shook his head, though he did allow himself a small smile at his acuteness. ‘You should know that the good of Sparta is always more important than an individual’s feelings.’ He drank off his cup of wine and refilled it before he said, ‘If what you say is true, and either of the kings is involved in this wretched cult, then we will need hard evidence to take to the ephors. I’ll reach out to my contacts; perhaps Pausanias has approached them, or someone they know.’  
‘Be careful,’ Alexios said. ‘I’ve seen what these people are capable of.’  
Brasidas grinned, quirking an eyebrow. ‘Are you worrying about me, Alexios?’  
The misthios laughed. ‘I have few enough friends here in Sparta. I’d rather the ones I do have weren’t killed for asking the wrong questions.’  
Brasidas leant back, chuckling. ‘I think I can look after myself.’  
Alexios grew serious as he said, ‘So I have been led to believe…’ He hesitated before saying, ‘I heard a rumour about you too, recently.’  
Brasidas said, ‘You did?’  
He nodded. ‘It was said that you were the only witness to the murder of an ephor in office.’  
Brasidas was taken aback by this. The awful image of Diphridas, covered in blood, squealing in fear reared up before him. He frowned. ‘Who’s still talking about that?’  
Alexios shook his head, and asked, ‘Is it true?’  
Brasidas said tightly, ‘Yes. I was sharing a tent with the man.’  
Alexios looked into his cup, swirling the wine around. He said softly, ‘Tell me what happened?’  
No one, after Archidemos had grilled him for the details the night the murder had occurred, had ever asked Brasidas what had happened. He’d felt the terrible weight of the knowledge pressing on him in many ways: Guilt that it had been his presence which had brought the murderer to the tent in the first place; shame that he had been unable to save Diphridas, and instead had witnessed a good Spartan die in such a terrible way; and horror that it could have been him, had the assassin just gone to the right pallet first. The fear that he would be killed in that way one day, sooner or later, had never left him.  
While a part of his mind was telling him to shut up, he found words coming out of his mouth and once he started, he couldn’t stanch the flow. He felt almost as though someone else was speaking through his mouth. ‘An assassin snuck into our tent. Female, from Crete. Not well trained. Diphridas was… being loved by his boyfriend, Namertes.’ He frowned before saying, ‘Namertes was a young man with great potential. He was never even mentioned once we were back in Sparta. Who knows what his family were told? I never even saw them – maybe he had none.’ As the months had passed after the event, he’d found his feelings shifting – he’d been less sad, angrier instead. He said with some heat, ‘Why was Diphridas remembered so well, while Namertes was forgotten entirely? What was the damn difference? I never knew.’  
Alexios was looking at him with quiet compassion, but he remained silent, letting Brasidas say what he needed to say.  
He continued in a cooler tone. ‘The assassin killed him first, a knife to the neck. She must have hit an artery; blood went everywhere. Diphridas was covered in it. He scrambled backwards, away from the killer. He… he squealed in fear, and as he did, she slashed his throat.’ He felt tears filling his eyes and in disgust with himself, he wiped them savagely away with the back of his hand.  
Alexios nodded, and asked gently, ‘What did you do?’  
Brasidas cleared his throat and recomposed himself by sitting up straighter in his seat. ‘I killed her. I had no armour, no weapon except a dagger. Like I said, she was poorly trained. She over-extended herself, and I slipped behind her mid-stroke.’ He shrugged. ‘Had she been a better assassin, I too would have been dead. She’d come with a contract from the Athenians on my head.’  
Alexios looked into his wine for a long moment before he said quietly, ‘That’s not the story I was told.’  
Brasidas poured himself another cup and drank it straight off. He felt relieved, but also strangely… tender. Trusting. He knew he shouldn’t have told the story at all; he would never have been able to, not to a Spartan; but now that he had, he felt grateful that Alexios had listened so patiently. It had changed their friendship into something deeper and more meaningful. Thinking this, he felt bold enough to ask, ‘I suppose you heard it from his son, Thaletas?’  
Alexios slowly nodded, watchful. ‘I did.’  
‘You must be quite close to him to talk about such things?’  
He nodded slowly again. ‘I was.’  
‘Past tense?’  
‘Past tense,’ he confirmed. ‘It meant something to me, but apparently, nothing worth holding to for to him.’  
Brasidas said, ‘He wishes to be a good Spartan, I suppose.’  
‘So he tells me,’ Alexios said, for the first time a little bitterness creeping into his voice. ‘Whatever that means.’  
Brasidas sighed. He no longer really knew himself, but he did hazard, ‘I can’t speak for him, but you must know that Sparta is not accepting of such relationships.’  
Alexios nodded, then put down his cup of wine as if putting the subject down with it. ‘It doesn’t matter; it’s a dream that died – not the first, and no doubt not the last.’ He sat up straighter and said, ‘When he told me about his pater, and said that you were there with Diphridas, I wanted to know what really happened. Curiosity, I suppose.’  
‘What did they tell him?’  
Alexios watched his face as he said, ‘Diphridas died trying to save your life - saving a war hero, no less - and was killed in the process. I didn’t believe a word of it. I’d seen you fight. I knew you wouldn’t have needed saving.’  
Brasidas was dumbfounded. ‘He was trying…’ He trailed off, shaking his head. He thought about it for a long moment before he said, ‘Did the story give Thaletas comfort?’  
‘Yes, I think so. More than the truth would have, anyway.’  
Brasidas said softly, ‘Then it’s better this way.’ The people might think him less than heroic under the circumstances, but there was even less of nobility in correcting the official version of the story, and thereby destroying a young man’s positive image of his father.  
Alexios, who was getting a little drunk, slapped a hand on his knee. ‘That’s enough talking about miserable things. You need to tell me what I’m to do about this general and his rebellion.’  
Brasidas smiled, and set to recounting all the information he had been able to gather so far. He was happy to put the past back where it belonged, its power much diminished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> We have no idea what Brasidas was actually doing in the year 428; it's one of only two years (along with 426) between the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War and his death that he isn't mentioned in the histories; so it made sense to me to place the action from the game in this 'historically empty' year.   
> In reality, I think there's a pretty good chance he was still working as an advisor to the fleet though, as when he is mentioned in the coming few years, it's always in connection with the navy... hopefully that isn't too many spoilers :)


	8. Arrival in Kylene

427 BCE

Early Spring

Brasidas rode out of Sparta as soon as the snows had thawed enough for the Valley of the Two Kings to be passable. He rode with a body guard of six soldiers, four of them young men fresh out of the agoge, the other two Equals he’d known for many years – his old friend Praxidas and another man, Imbrios, who was a quiet, taciturn kind of man.  
As they passed through Linou Farm after a long day on the road, everyone was grimly silent; the wind was so cold it felt like it was cutting at their skin. The clouds, low in the sky, threatened rain. Besides the weather, Brasidas thought, it was always something of an adjustment donning armour again after winter. The weight of breastplate and shield seemed more uncomfortable than it had the season before; although their training never stopped, even in the coldest months, much of that was done naked, or at most, wearing a perizoma.  
He squared his shoulders as the rain began to come down in fat drops, and turned his mind inwards, ignoring his discomfort as he always did. He was on his way to Kylene, in Elis, where he would be joining the fleet as an advisor again – though the sole advisor this time, at least.  
He readily acknowledged that Alexios had made this posting possible. The two men had worked all summer to remove the men who were rousing the helots to rebellion. It had all been affected quietly and efficiently. Not only the General who Brasidas had suspected was found to be involved in the conspiracy, but three Krypteia as well; their involvement had been uncovered, to his surprise, with Pausanias’ help.  
Brasidas frowned over that as he had been doing all winter. He and Alexios had been certain that it must be Pausanias who was betraying Sparta to the Cult of Kosmos – a relief to Brasidas, who liked Archidemos too well to want to think it was him; but the help the younger king had given them to bring the rebellion down had thrown that certainty to the wind, leaving them both puzzled, and no nearer an answer than they had been before; and in Brasidas’ case, a return of anxiety that it was Archidemos after all.  
In any case, the restoration of peace at home had earnt him the goodwill of the Assembly once more, and when the time came for the postings to be made for the following campaign season, he’d been voted into the advisership to the fleet by a considerable margin.  
He’d gratefully repaid Alexios for his help by manoeuvring behind the scenes to persuade Archidemos to give the misthios and his mater a chance to gain their citizenship back. The king had been very resistant; but from an outright ‘No’, Brasidas had brought him around to conceding that, if the misthios could prove his loyalty on the Boeotian frontlines, then he would reconsider the request. When they had met to discuss the matter in the throne room, Brasidas had felt fairly confident that Alexios would be able to achieve what Archidemos requested – but then Pausanias had added his own caveat, that Sparta must also win the Olympic Games. Brasidas had heard this additional task with incredulity, but Alexios took it on the chin. He shook his head to himself. Though it seemed impossible, if anyone could do it, he supposed Alexios could.  
He turned his mind to his own concerns then. He had, after he’d been told about the cult by Alexios, sent out enquiries to the men he trusted who were in various positions throughout the Greek world. He had heard back from all of them, bar one – the leader of Arkadia, Lagos.  
Lagos was a Spartiate who had been sent, at the outbreak of the war, to take over the governorship of the region, replacing a man who had been suspected of Athenian sympathies. He had, since then, remained comfortably in power. Brasidas had expected him to reply to his first message, but when he didn’t, he’d sent a second messenger, assuming that the first had been lost on the road. His follow up message had also been ignored. What had really sealed his misgivings was the discovery that he had raised an enormous bounty against the Eagle Bearer, in his own name, which was totally unlike him.  
He grimaced. He almost wished that he hadn’t been assigned to the fleet, or at least that he could have delayed taking up his position to allow himself time to investigate what was going on with Lagos; but it would have to wait until the end of the year now, or even the following Spring. He could only hope that Alexios would be kept busy in Boeotia, or that their paths might cross in Elis, before the misthios got wind of the bounty raised in Arkadia. Brasidas feared, with good cause, that if he didn’t get to Alexios before Alexios got to Lagos, there would be no talking.  
Before any of that could be dealt with though, there was work to do.  
The Spartan fleet had been placed under a new admiral, Alcidas. He had been sent to Elis at the end of the previous season to prepare the fleet to sail for Corcyra in the spring, an island not far from Kephalonia, where it was clear trouble was brewing, of the kind that might prove useful to Sparta’s war efforts.  
Brasidas had been called into the throne room on a windy, miserable kind of a day in the preceding autumn to meet with the kings and ephors, and found a Korinthian herald present. Korinthia, the herald explained to him, was seeking to win Corcyra away from their Athenian alliance. Prisoners had been taken to Korinth during one of the many naval skirmishes that summer, and by who knew what devious means, the city had persuaded them to return to Corcyra on the condition that they turn the island against Athens. The herald had come to secure Sparta’s assistance with the rebellion in the form of ships when the time came; Sparta, and particularly Archidemos, were keen to give them what they asked for.  
Brasidas had listened intently, then sided with Archidemos. He pointed out that Sparta wished to free the Greek people from the yoke of Athenian oppression, or so it was said, and this would be a good chance to make good on that promise. He’d found it reassuring that he was thought to be qualified to offer an opinion, and that the distinguished men listened to him closely. He was, after all, a veteran of two of the most successful naval actions yet undertaken by the Spartan navy.  
Since then, there had been no news of the developing situation on Corcyra due, he supposed, to the season. Brasidas was hopeful that word would have reached the fleet in Kylene, though.  
Darkness had begun to fall early. Praxidas pointed to the distant lights of the town and shouted, ‘There it is.’

The group rode straight for Kallias’ Warehouses, which served as the Spartan headquarters there. They found it quiet; there were a few patrols checking the perimeter, but otherwise, no sign of any activity within.  
Brasidas accosted the guard at the main gate from his horse. ‘Is Alcidas here?’  
The guard squinted up at him, then stood up a little straighter in recognition. His commendation still carried weight with some, he thought dryly; though it meant less these days, as the war dragged on.  
‘No, sir. He’s gone home for the night, to his apartment in Elis City.’  
Brasidas nodded and thanked him, then said to his men, ‘Guess we’ve a little further to go.’  
Elis City in an Olympic year was just what Brasidas didn’t need; there were already the beginnings of the crowds which would be a huge hinderance to their work there later in the year, even on such a miserable night as this. He had heard how bad it could get - sailors deserting to fraternise with the athletes and the women; the women abandoned by sports mad spouses coming to complain to the local garrison, as though their job was minding the populace; worst of all was the lack of security that always resulted from the festivities. Men and women would be snuck into the barracks, and some of them would almost certainly prove to be spies. He sighed to himself. Summer would be a challenge.  
The Admiral’s residence was in the centre of town, near a small agora; upstairs there were three further apartments which had been purchased by Timocrates two years earlier, before he’d perished near Naupactus. It was probably just as well he had, Brasidas thought darkly; there had been such a fuss made about the rooms in Sparta – the main thrust of the disapproval being that surely barracks were good enough, even for Admirals - that there was every chance that if Timocrates had survived, he’d have been driven out of Sparta over it.  
He dismounted in the square beside the notice board, and stretched his arms and back, glad to be off the horse. One of the young soldiers, Thyrsos, scurried to the door Brasidas indicated and knocked.  
The door opened a crack, and a slave peeped out. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded rudely.  
Brasidas could see the warm light of lanterns inside, and hear the sounds of people talking and laughing. Alcidas, apparently, had embraced the Elian way of life during the winter.  
Thyrsos said stiffly, ‘Brasidas of Sparta is here. He wishes to speak with Admiral Alcidas.’  
‘He’s entertaining,’ the slave said without any change in tone. ‘I’ll see if he’s available.’  
He went in, shutting the door once more; a few moments later he returned. He looked beyond Thyrsos to where Brasidas stood, the rain tinkling against his breastplate, and running unpleasantly down his back. He said, slightly more deferentially, ‘The Admiral bids you welcome, but he says he’s sure you must be tired from your journey. He will meet with you tomorrow morning at the Warehouses in Kylene. He says that the apartment above has been prepared for you.’  
Brasidas inhaled very slowly in annoyance. This was undoubtedly a pointed snub, and he did his best to quiet his irritation as he exhaled again, equally slowly. He acknowledged that he was tired; he really wasn’t in the mood for small talk, particularly not if Alcidas had been drinking; and yes, he did prefer to go upstairs and sleep; but still -  
He said tightly, ‘Tell the admiral I will see him there, early.’  
The slave barely listened as he turned back inside and closed the door with a resounding thud.  
Brasidas said to Praxidas, ‘The barracks are at the Temple of Hades. Take my mount; we’ll meet here at dawn tomorrow.’  
Praxidas nodded curtly, and the six men went away towards the temple which was visible above the city, leaving Brasidas to go to his apartment alone.  
As he trudged up the stairs, he thought that this was not a promising start. While he had found Timocrates and Lycophron irritating the last time he’d been in Elis, at least Cnemus had been amenable and that was what had mattered. His purpose in being sent to join the Admiral was at least in part to ensure he was presenting a strong, Spartan presence to the people of Elis and to his sailors – something which had never been a problem with Cnemus. If tonight was anything to judge by, Alcidas may well be determined to be difficult…  
He sighed and tried to comfort himself that he was reading too much into it, but he had good reasons to believe it.  
Alcidas was related loosely to the Eurypontid line, and was therefore distantly related to Archidemos. Though not in line for the kingship, he'd always acted as though he was; so much so, that Archidemos had once told Brasidas that he didn’t trust him. That was enough to make Brasidas very wary.  
He pushed the door open, and found that the apartment was just as garish and luxurious as he remembered it. Two braziers were lit, making the room warm and bathing the space in a golden yellow light - a relief after the cold night. The rest of it, though, was a bit too much for him: Rich wall hangings; ornate furniture; plush carpets; a krater of wine taller than himself in one corner...  
He’d just dropped his saddlebags on the floor and given a long sigh, holding his hands out to the nearest brazier and closing his eyes against the wave of exhaustion that rose up in him, when there was a gentle knock on the door.  
‘Enter.’  
A pretty, dark-haired woman, perhaps in her late twenties, came in carrying a large bowl of steaming water. She said in a soft, musical voice, ‘I’ve brought water for you to wash yourself, sir.’  
Brasidas said tiredly, ‘Set it down on the table, thank you.’  
She did, but rather than going back out, she came towards him. ‘Can I help you with your armour, sir?’  
She met his eye coyly, and he realised she must be a hetaera, no doubt sent by Alcidas. He very briefly wondered why he’d sent her - politics, probably - but he was too tired to worry. He really could use the help with his armour, and, well... he was only human. It had been years since he’d known a woman, and who knew when his next chance might be.  
‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘I’d appreciate the help.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> The situation with Corcyra (modern Corfu) as I have explained it here comes from Thucydides. More details to follow.  
> Alcidas being a relative of Archidemos is creative licence, inspired by Lysander's later (alleged) resentment towards King Agesilaus in 395 which is covered in Plutarch's 'Life of Agesilaus.' I won't go into more detail here, because spoilers :)
> 
> Author note:  
> Yes, I have made a slight amendment to the canon story here by breaking apart the meeting with the kings in Sparta and the business with Lagos in Arkadia. Getting the game timeline and historical timeline to gel can be a little tricky, and this was the best way to resolve those issues, while providing a filler for the historically empty year to come, 426BCE.  
> Also of course, Corcyra (strangely) doesn't appear on the game map, so any descriptions of it will be based on my own imaginings.


	9. Preparations and Difficulties

427BCE

The following morning, as Brasidas woke in the darkness of early morning, the scent of myrrh was lingering in the room… the woman… Penelope, he thought contentedly in the warm fuzziness of waking. Memories of dark hair; smoothe skin; softness. He’d missed that, and the nearness; the warmth of holding someone close, touching and being touched.  
Then he sighed, letting the thoughts slip away, sat up and stretched. Outside he could hear the rain pattering against the door that opened onto the balcony and sighed. It was going to be another one of those days.  
He washed with the left-over water from the night before, not too cold but certainly invigorating, then slowly began dressing himself. By the time he was tying the last tie of his greaves, there was a knock on the door.  
‘Is that you Praxidas?’  
‘It is.’  
He opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, pulling his cloak around himself shielding against the rain. There were no stars to be seen above. ‘Settled weather then.’  
Praxidas grunted agreement and they went together downstairs, and mounted up.

Alcidas arrived at the warehouses in the middle of the morning, and he and Brasidas approached one another with a show of comraderie, but a definite air of watchfulness, even wariness.  
Brasidas thought that he was the opposite of Cnemus in many ways, not least in being a relatively young man, perhaps nearing thirty, with handsome, regular features. He had an air of arrogance that was totally Spartan, but which Brasidas found pitiable in a young man yet to prove himself; but he was careful as always to keep his thoughts to himself.  
He said cheerfully, ‘Chaire, Admiral.’  
In a peevish way – he was no doubt hungover - he replied, ‘There’s no need to be formal when there’s no one else around. Call me Alcidas.’  
‘Any news from Corcyra?’ Brasidas asked, not acknowledging this request.  
Alcidas fell onto a seat, and called for wine. ‘Nothing yet. The oligarchs made it safely back to the city, but all had been quiet since.’  
‘You’ve been here all winter; what steps have been taken to refit and increase the fleet? I assume training has been going forward?’  
He grimaced. ‘Don’t be so overeager. The refitting is being done; as to training, there’s plenty of time yet for all that.’  
Brasidas rocked back on his heels, irritated by this casual attitude. With more force than he intended, he said, ‘So you’ve done nothing all winter with the men?’  
Alcidas gave him a narrow look. ‘You’re here to advise, Brasidas, not order me about like a boy in the agoge.’  
Brasidas was tempted to retort, but instead he reminded himself he didn’t want to set out on the wrong foot; he would need to tread carefully. ‘Of course not,’ he said, holding up his hands in apology, ‘It’s only that I’ve been idle all winter, and I’m keen to be busy once more. I imagine the sailors will feel the same.’  
Alcidas accepted his apology, albeit only implied, with a nod; he took the wine a slave had brought him and drank it with an air of relief.  
The relief was short lived, as a young soldier came into the room. ‘Admiral – A herald has just arrived in the yard; he says two Spartan envoys are on their way from the port and wish to see you.’  
Alcidas said, ‘Of course. Bring them directly to us.’ When he was gone, he groaned and asked Brasidas with a frown, ‘Do you know anything about this?’  
Brasidas shook his head slowly, and walked over to the doorway that looked towards the port. He could see the small cluster of men with the envoys as they approached along the quay; he squinted through the rain and at last recognised the two men in question.  
He said softly, half to himself, ‘It’s Hippodamos and Aristocrates. They were sent to Corcyra. They’ll be here with news.’  
Alcidas grimaced, and prepared himself to greet the envoys by standing; Brasidas took up a position beside him, though he immediately took a step away from the admiral though, as the other man smelt very strongly of stale wine and unwashed clothes. He shook his head to himself.

Hippodamos did all the talking – and rather more than a Spartan ought, Brasidas thought dryly – though that was the usual way with envoys.  
‘Admiral,’ he began to Alcidas, but glancing at Brasidas. They knew each other in passing, but because the two ambassadors had gone to Corcyra before the vote to make Brasidas advisor had occurred, and because Alcidas hadn’t bothered to say why he was there, Hippodamos had no way of knowing whether he ought to include Brasidas in his report or not. He rather awkwardly negotiated this by glancing at Brasidas occasionally in an unintentionally furtive way. It would have been amusing had the circumstances been less serious.  
‘I’m sorry to say that things did not work out as we had hoped on Corcyra. The navy must be deployed as soon as possible if we’re to secure the island for Sparta.’  
‘That’s for me to decide,’ Alcidas said peremptorily. ‘Just tell me what you know.’  
Hippodamos’ eyebrow shot up at the disrespect, but he said calmly enough, ‘We arrived two weeks ago, and the oligarchic party rose up, just as they promised they would. There was a battle in the city, and we were successful against the so-called people’s party.’ In a kind of muttered side note, addressed to no one in particular, he said, ‘Those bloody Athenians have a lot to answer for with their absurd democracy idea.’ He became ponderous as he continued, ‘In the following few days, there were skirmishes in the city though. The oligarchs had hired eight hundred mercenaries from the mainland, but in the meantime, the slaves had defected to the people’s party – it evened out the numbers in a way that we had not foreseen. There was fighting everywhere, but I’m sorry to say that our side had entrenched themselves at the port, while the people had taken over the akropolis and most of the city so they had the better ground. We hadn’t imagined they would be so… intelligent in their choice; and persistent. They attacked us day and night. In order to secure their safety, the oligarchs set fire to a large portion of the port and houses nearby – barricading themselves in in that way.’  
Alcidas said incredulously, ‘And you allowed them to do that?’  
Hippodamos looked crestfallen. ‘We could do little to persuade them, two men against a group of some hundred and more, all in the grip of hysteria. They demanded that we leave the island to fetch assistance, and I admit that I was eager to do so – without it, their attempt at taking power is surely lost.’  
Alcidas considered this for a long moment before he said, ‘I think you should continue on to Sparta and speak with the ephors. We’ve always intended to sail on Corcyra this summer; it’s still earlier in the season than I should like – the weather, you know.’ He added lamely when he saw a look of quiet disbelief cross Hippodamos’ face.  
Brasidas looked at the admiral from the corner of his eye, his lips pursed thoughtfully. Alcidas must be saying this to buy himself time – he had the authority to order the fleet into action without orders from home. That could only mean one thing – he knew more than he had admitted to Brasidas about the readiness, or lack of it, of the fleet.  
The two envoys had agreed to going on to Sparta, and were preparing to leave. Brasidas shook hands with them and wished them safe travels, yet all the time his mind was running over exactly what they would need to do. The ships might be ready, as Alcidas had implied – Brasidas intended to go down to the ship yards and look them over later in the day to see for himself - but the sailors would need to be called up from the various camps across Elis, and to do at least some basic training to get them back into shape. It would all take time; time they probably didn’t have.  
When they were alone, Brasidas said calmly, ‘We must send for the sailors at once. We can have the whole force here in a couple of days. In the meantime, we’ll get the sailors we have here training this afternoon.’ He added in an off-hand way, ‘I assume the ships are actually ready? You’ve been checking regularly on the progress of the refit?’  
Alcidas bristled at his taking charge. With a heavy scowl, he said, ‘I already told you the refitting was happening all winter.’  
‘Yes… but I’m asking if you have still been doing regular progress checks on the work?’  
Alcidas said, sarcastically, ‘They do know what they’re meant to be doing, Brasidas.’  
Brasidas looked at him for a long moment, his face carefully neutral. He hadn’t been worried before, but now he was – worried, and faintly disgusted. He said coolly, carefully, ‘Shipbuilders lag when they aren’t regularly checked up on – your predecessor will have told you so at handover. Those checks are the main part of your winter duties here. Have you been doing them?’  
Alcidas snarled, ‘How dare you question me like this? I won’t remind you of your place again!’  
Brasidas closed his eyes for a moment, getting a grip on his anger. Between gritted teeth, he asked, ‘Did. You. Check. Up. On. The. Shipbuilders. During. Winter?’  
Alcidas shouted, ‘No! But the fucking ships will be ready anyway!’ He stormed from the room, leaving behind him a string of curses.  
Brasidas sighed heavily. So much for treading carefully!

The next week was intense. Brasidas was so busy, he didn’t return to his apartment at nights, but slept at the docks. He had found that the situation was about as bad as Alcidas’ neglect could have made it. The shipbuilders were behind schedule, of course; the sailors were slow to get back into the habits of rising early, rowing hard, and following orders; and the provisioning of grain to allow the fleet to sail when needed had been sluggishly going on for a few weeks, but there was nowhere near enough stores yet for even the briefest foray from base.  
Brasidas worked every hour his body allowed to make up for the shortfall, while Alcidas had not reappeared in Kylene at all, and communicated with him only through messengers. At least that left Brasidas free to do what he needed to – though that was, he thought sourly, exactly Alcidas’ job.

It was the afternoon of a clear, crisp day at the end of that exhausting week, and Brasidas was on a ship in the bay, engaged in practicing a circle formation. It took real nautical skill to resist the force of waves and wind so as not to run into one another; but he was happy to note that there was nothing but improvement since he had been in Kylene last.  
At least the previous Admiral had done his job, even if the current one didn’t, he thought sourly; but this fruitless train of thought was interrupted by a shout from Praxidas, who was beside him on deck.  
‘Ships!’ he said, pointing to the horizon.  
Brasidas felt a chill – there looked to be a lot of them, and it was impossible to tell whether they were Athenian or not, but he thought they must surely be. He said to the herald who was nearby, ‘Sound offensive formation.’  
This was done, and though carried out more slowly than ideal, the ships soon turned to face the incoming enemy in a good, tight formation. In position, now they just had to wait.  
Brasidas’ ship was at the rear, so he could see least; but it wasn’t long before they were all relieved of anxiety. The call went up that they were friendly ships – a lot of them.  
Brasidas relaxed, and said to the herald, ‘Sound resumption of training.’  
As Brasidas’ ships slowly moved back into circle formation, the incoming ships streamed past – Spartan soldiers, he noted, but with many not in uniform... true sailors then, perhaps from the islands, he thought.  
With an effort, he pushed his curiosity away though; he had a task to do. He would get all the answers he wanted later.

Brasidas came ashore in the late afternoon, his ship navigating carefully between the newly arrived ships now at anchor in the bay. ‘How many do you think there are?’ he asked Praxidas.  
‘I’d say forty.’  
‘Yes – that’s what I was thinking.’  
Alcidas had come down to the dock, and was standing looking out over the bay talking with animation to a man with bushy eyebrows and a stern look about him. Brasidas approached them, and said, ‘Chaire, Admiral. It’s good to see you amongst us again.’  
Alcidas just looked at him rudely, but the other man said, ‘Brasidas,’ holding out a hand which Brasidas took and shook firmly. ‘I’m Meurios.’  
‘Where have you come from?’ Brasidas asked.  
‘Lesbos,’ he said, looking at Alcidas meaningfully from the corner of his eye. Brasidas knew that Alcidas had been less than stellar with the fleet near Lesbos in the previous summer as a commander – it was the reason Brasidas had been sent to advise him, now that he was admiral. ‘We had a hard time of it sailing around Crete and the Peloponnese, or we’d have been here weeks ago.’  
Brasidas looked at Alcidas then, who looked remarkably smug. He sternly said ‘If you knew they were coming, Admiral, I should have been informed.’  
Alcidas shrugged. ‘Well - you know now.’  
He wanted to punch him; but with a great effort at remaining reasonable, he said, ‘I’ve spent the last week provisioning for thirteen ships. We now have fifty-three. You can see the problem here, can’t you?’  
Brasidas saw Meurios look at him with concern, but Alcidas just looked confused – confused! He said casually, ‘Well – as soon as you’ve rectified the miscalculation, at least we can sail for Corcyra. That’s all that matters.’  
Brasidas stared at him incredulously for a moment – miscalculation! Alcidas stared back, waiting to see if he had pushed him far enough to snap…  
Without saying a word, Brasidas turned crisply on his heel and walked away, going at once to find the hoplite, Onkos, who was in charge of managing the grain stores. They’d congratulated themselves just that morning on having sourced enough grain at last; but now they would have to do what Brasidas had not wished to – they would have to attempt an agreement with Lagos to provision the ships in Arkadia; it was the only region that would have enough to spare; and only the gods knew if he would agree to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Alcidas had been involved with the fleet in the previous year (not sure if he was admiral then or only a commander) during Cleon's business with Mytilene (which is mentioned in the game). The city had rebelled, Sparta had failed to get to them in time to assist because, as Thucydides tells us, they travelled there at a leisurely pace, arriving too late to help. I have extrapolated Alcidas' character out from there. He may not have been as bad as I've painted him, but then, he may have been worse :)  
> Thucydides provided all the details here.


	10. Corcyra

Another week of frantic work, including careful negotiation between Onkos and Lagos, had passed. Brasidas was relieved that those negotiations had borne swift fruit, though it had cost Sparta an exorbitant amount, making Brasidas more certain than ever that something was going on with Lagos, as well as more frustrated that he could do nothing about it yet; but finally the ships, all fifty-three of them, were provisioned, manned, and had sailed as far as the mainland opposite Corcyra.

Brasidas stood on the deck of a ship, deep in thought.  
When they’d come ashore, several defectors from the island had appeared to tell them that, although Athens had sent their twelve ships from Naupactus in support, along with five hundred hoplites, the city was in such a state of upheaval and confusion that an immediate assault could be decisive. The Corcyreans had around forty ships of their own, but they were for the most part modified civil vessels, repurposed, and would be no use for ramming – meaning that the Spartans should theoretically retain a superiority despite a slight numerical inferiority.  
The real danger was in the Athenian ships, the same ones he had faced two years earlier; Brasidas had seen how easily numbers could be made to play against them as much as for them. He had been eager to sail immediately, even though the fleet had only just arrived and it was already afternoon. Surprise was everything in war; catching the island unprepared was an advantage that he firmly believed they shouldn’t give up.  
But of course, he thought savagely, that inept, cowardly bastard Alcidas had dithered. First, he’d said the men were too tired, even though the unit polemarches who were present said otherwise; then he suggested it was an Athenian trap, so they should do more scouting before acting; and finally, when Brasidas was still firm in his opinion, he just said no.  
The ships had anchored, the men had gone ashore and set up camp, and Brasidas was left angrily staring across at the lost opportunity, while Alcidas was drinking wine with his selected companions and no doubt bad mouthing him.  
‘We’ll get it done tomorrow,’ Praxidas said, coming up behind him and resting a hand briefly on his shoulder.  
Brasidas didn’t say anything to that, but continued to stare moodily across the water. After a long moment he said, ‘What’s the point of being an advisor to an admiral who won’t see sense?'  
Praxidas said firmly, ‘Everyone in Sparta will know who was admiral here – and we all see it isn’t Alcidas.’  
Brasidas glanced at him and said wryly, ‘Small comfort.’ Then he sighed, putting his mood aside. ‘We should get the men training to keep them sharp for tomorrow.’  
‘Already done,’ Praxidas said, then he added, ‘You should get some rest, Brasidas.’  
He nodded. He was, in truth, bone tired. ‘If anything happens, wake me.’  
Praxidas nodded curtly as if to say ‘of course’, and Brasidas went to find a tent to stretch out in.

At dawn the following morning – a blessedly clear morning - the Spartan ships ranged themselves in offensive formation facing the harbour of the Corcyra City where the twelve Athenian ships could be seen still at anchor. Smoke curled up into the air above the island, giving the place a sinister look; there were people milling around the harbour, preparing to put ships to sea.  
Brasidas, from his position on the bridge beside Alcidas, watched first with surprise, then delight, as the Corcyrean ships began to straggle out towards them in small numbers. There was no attempt to get themselves into formation.  
Alcidas said, ‘Have twenty ship form up and face the Corcyreans; the rest of us should wait for Athens to join the fray.’  
The herald did his work, and twenty ships broke away from the fleet, rowing at speed towards the foe. The foremost two ships coming out of the harbour stopped, and Brasidas could see even from that distance that they were holding up their hands. One of the Spartan ships approached them, there was some shouted discussion deck to deck; then the two ships turned and prepared to attack those behind them.  
‘Deserters,’ Alcidas said with a sneer. ‘Cowards.’  
Brasidas made no comment – any advantage at this point was a good advantage; although in general, no Spartan could truly approve of a man whose loyalty was subject to the whims of war. It was typical of the allies of Athens though, and said everything that needed saying about their empire.  
Meanwhile, the Corcyrean ships, still streaming out of the harbour in dribs and drabs, were being sunk and disabled everywhere. From where they were, it was impossible for Brasidas to know exactly what was going on, but it was almost certain that they were winning.  
It was much longer than expected before the Athenians then sailed out in careful formation, interposing themselves between the bulk of the Spartan fleet and the battle that was going forward in front of the port.  
Alcidas shouted, ‘Prepare yourselves!’ though it was hardly necessary. Everyone was entirely focussed on what was happening.  
The ships came towards them, building speed slowly, but at the last moment, when Brasidas would have expected them to surge ahead, hoping to hole the ships at the centre of the front line, they instead veered to the right and instead aimed for the wing, which had naturally been formed up of the weaker ships.  
This unexpected decision was masterful; they immediately holed one ship, and the others in the vicinity floundered, panicking, trying to turn to face the oncoming threat. Some began to scatter, losing formation.  
Alcidas immediately lost his head. He began shouting orders that Brasidas heard with more alarm than he had viewed the breaking line. ‘Have the whole fleet turn to face the Athenians! Recall the twenty ships! We must retreat!’  
Brasidas gestured to the herald to wait a moment, and sternly said, ‘You’re panicking, Alcidas. We’ll be torn to pieces if we turn tail now. We must get into a defensive formation.’ He said to the herald, ‘Sound defensive formation.’  
The herald glanced at Alcidas but did as Brasidas ordered.  
Alcidas shouted, ‘You’re not in charge here, Brasidas! How dare you override my orders?’  
Brasidas knew he was losing his temper; he never lost his temper... but this was too much. The scalding words come pouring out. ‘Because you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, you useless bastard! Maybe if you’d joined in the training as you should have, you’d know what needs to be done! But you were too busy drinking and fucking and thinking how clever you were; so now you need to watch and learn, or sit down and shut the fuck up!’  
Alcidas just gaped at him, and Brasidas wondered if anyone had ever spoken to him like that; probably not, to judge by his speechlessness. He eyed him, challenging the admiral to argue; but there was clearly enough rage in his face that Alcidas thought better of it.  
The Spartan ships had moved efficently into the circle formation that they had practiced in the bay; the whole time harried by the Athenian ships, which circled them, shooting arrows and throwing javelins at the men on the decks, trying to force them into disarray.  
Brasidas left Alcidas standing broodingly on the bridge, and leaping down onto the deck, he took his place with the sailors with shield and javelins.  
Time lost all meaning as it always did in battle, as the adrenaline surged through him, and all his thought and attention narrowed to the task at hand - two simple motions: ducking missiles, and throwing javelins from the deck. Over and over and over again. 

Late in the afternoon, the twenty ships which had been wreaking havoc on the Corcyrean ships were the deciding factor in the shift of the battle. They came at speed against the Athenians, and their unexpected arrival drove the Athenians into a defensive formation themselves, allowing the larger part of the Spartan fleet to form up into offensive formation and make an attempt against them.  
The sun was setting as Brasidas returned to the bridge. From that position, he could see what remained of the Corcyrean ships retreating into the harbour behind the Athenian line while the Athenian line began to back water.  
Brasidas said to Praxidas with something like appreciation, ‘That’s clever. You see, they’re buying time for the Corcyreans to retreat behind them.’  
Praxidas nodded. ‘We should bring that into training.’  
Alcidas, who was standing nearby, said to the herald, ‘Signal for the Corcyrean ships to be taken under tow back to the mainland and a general withdrawal to camp and anchorage.’  
Brasidas glanced at him, too tired now to feel anything very much. He knew he should have held his tongue earlier – it was poor politics, and his pater would have something to say about it; but he didn’t really care. He had said nothing that he wasn't willing to stand behind.  
He said coolly, ‘Allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations, Admiral. You have your first victory.’  
Alcidas looked at him balefully, but he muttered, ‘Thank you.’

Back on the mainland, Alcidas called a meeting in the HQ tent with all the polemarches to discuss what action should be taken on the following day.  
Brasidas remained quiet as two different options were discussed - either attacking the city, or ravaging the coast. He was too tired to really care; and he knew whatever he said, Alcidas would dismiss it out of hand.  
His silence did not go unnoticed. Alcidas at last turned to him, and with a sneer in his voice, he said, ‘You’re unusually quiet tonight, Brasidas; you no doubt have your own ideas.’  
Brasidas said quietly, ‘Just as I said when we arrived here, we should attack the city while they're in turmoil; though in my opinion that action would have been more effective the day we arrived; but you will do just as you wish.’  
Alcidas flushed, and said dismissively, ‘It was a bad idea then, and it’s a worse one now. You admit it yourself.’ He turned back to the polemarches and said, ‘We will raid the coast tomorrow. Twenty ships should...’  
Brasidas didn’t wait to hear the details – he would get them from Praxidas later. He left the HQ tent, ignoring Alcidas’ remonstrance with a cold glance.  
He needed to wash and sleep – perhaps not in that order. Then he would write to Archidemos and his pater telling them everything that had happened during the battle. Damage control would be needed in Sparta, and the sooner that started, the better.  
He was ashamed to admit he was too tired to care much about that either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> The Spartans took thirteen ships under tow from the battle, plus the two desertions. This was a very good result, though without the follow-through that Brasidas (historically) wished. The following day, the Spartans raided parts of Corcyra, and then at nightfall, they received a beacon signal indicating that there were thirty Athenian ships coming from Leucas. They set out for home that night, sailing close to land to avoid detection.  
> Incidentally, the Spartan camp on the mainland was at a place called Sybota, which I think is in Thessaly - ie. not on the map of the game, so I didn't mention the name :)  
> This is the only battle and mention of Brasidas for that year (my man Thucydides providing all the details as usual.)  
> It’s actually pretty unclear in general what the fleet (or the admiral, for that matter) did in any given year between occasional notable battles, but I think it’s a safe assumption that they engaged in coastal patrolling, raiding, and what is euphemistically called ‘privateering’ in later eras – that is, piracy against Athenian and allied ships.


	11. Some Things are Made to be Broken...

427 BCE  
Late Summer

Brasidas and Praxidas, with a small group of soldiers, were leaving Kallias’ Warehouses in the middle of a clear, hot morning in late summer. There was a shout, and then people - travellers for the most part - began passing them by in a sudden uproar, rushing in the direction of the nearby port.  
Out of curiosity, Brasidas asked a Spartan soldier who was leant against a wall nearby, looking deeply uninterested in life, what had happened. He straightened a little when he recognised Brasidas, but said in a bored voice, ‘It sounds like an athlete has been killed down at the port.’  
Brasidas sighed and said, ‘Another one!’ He was about to walk away when he heard above the general uproar, ‘Testikles is dead!’  
That brought him up short. He stopped, looking back towards the port, and cursed lightly.  
Praxidas said morosely, ‘The Spartan champion.’ He was looking curiously at Brasidas though, and added, ‘I didn’t know you were interested in pankration?’  
Brasidas looked at him distractedly and said, ‘I’m not…’ Then he paused before saying more firmly, ‘Take the men back to Elis City, Praxidas. I’ll come after. There’s someone I need to see.’  
Praxidas nodded, and did as ordered. Brasidas stood looking at the ground for a long moment, feeling oddly unsettled; but then he went away into the crowd towards the source of the commotion.  
At first, he kept himself concealed amongst the group of curious onlookers. He spotted Barnabas and Herodotus, the crew of the Adrestia, and that Athenian he’d been warned about in despatches from Sparta, Alcibiades; and shining amongst them, like a visitor from Olympos itself, there was Alexios, oblivious as always to the attention he drew from everybody; though at that moment he looked totally confounded - if he was a god, he was a worried one.  
Brasidas felt something in his chest constrict, seeing Alexios. Some truth had grabbed him by the shoulder, demanding he listen... he knew suddenly that something had changed in his feelings towards the other man, beyond any friendship he had known before; and as soon as he acknowledged it, he saw that it had always been there, plainly in sight. He knew with startling clarity that he’d been ignoring this information for a long time now, perhaps from as long before as their first meeting in Korinth – that beautiful, lethal dance in which they had fit together so well - but certainly since the night he’d told Alexios about Diphridas and had been truly heard and seen; and held, in a way, in safety. That night, he had felt such... gratitude? Appreciation? What was the word he was looking for?  
The months that followed in Sparta had only strengthened the feeling, as they’d worked together to quiet the helot rebellion. While sharing the task, that gratitude had developed into total trust, appreciation for a shared sense of humour, and an entirely easy and comfortable companionship…  
He told himself that Alexios was his only friend who wasn’t a true Spartan both born and raised though, so perhaps he only felt like this because Alexios had a softness to him which he hadn’t encountered before. In a profoundly un-Spartan way, Alexios allowed his pity and compassion to show with warmth and a kind of softness that should have been repellent to Brasidas, going against everything he’d been taught in the agoge, but no – no, it was quite the opposite...  
As Brasidas stood in the crowd there on the dock, he cursed softly to himself, realising what he was admitting to himself, and knowing that just as when Pandora opened the forbidden chest, the acknowledgment had been followed closely by a wave of fear and confusion.  
He didn’t like men in that way, he definitely didn’t like men in that way... did he?  
The crowd began to move away, and Alexios’ friends dispersed with them, leaving the misthios on his own, shaking his head as he turned to go back towards the ship.  
Brasidas did what all good Spartans did when they felt fear – he faced it front on, silencing it with action, and called out, ‘Alexios!’  
He turned with a grin. ‘If it isn’t my favourite Spartan,’ he said, as they clasped hands. ‘Where have you come from?’  
Brasidas felt the grin like a physical clench in his chest; he grinned back; but he answered prosaically, ‘The warehouses - work,’ he added. ‘I heard there was an accident?’  
Alexios grimaced. ‘Yes. Testikles was drunk, and he fell into the sea. There were sharks...’  
Brasidas shook his head, feeling the crackle of strength and power which surrounded Alexios like a cloud. It was exhilarating, like being in contact with pure adrenalin. ‘He’s not the first,’ he said, then frowned. ‘What are you going to do? Pausanias won’t be happy.’  
Alexios grinned. ‘Someone will have to take his place, of course. Pausanias didn’t say Testikles had to win the wreath, did he?’  
Brasidas just stared at him for a moment. ‘You’re going to enter? You can’t be serious! Do you even know how to fight in the pankration?’  
He shrugged. ‘How hard can it be? Throw a few punches, do a bit of wrestling. I can do that blindfolded.’  
Brasidas began to laugh as he shook his head. ‘I thought the request to bring back a wreath was crazy when it was a professional fighter entering!’  
Alexios slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Have some faith,’ he said with a wink. ‘Anyway - what are you doing right now?’  
He grinned happily. ‘I’m on my way back to Elis City. I have to report to Admiral Alcidas.’  
Alexios said, ‘Let me grab a few things from the ship, and I’ll come with you. You can tell me all about this Admiral.’

As they made their way out of Kylene, before they talked about anything else, Brasidas asked, ‘Where are you staying?’  
Alexios shrugged. ‘I was just going to find a temple to stretch out in for the night. I can sleep anywhere.’  
Brasidas ignored his surging feelings and said firmly, ‘You can stay with me, then. The apartment’s big enough, there’s a spare couch, and you’re less likely to get robbed as you sleep.’  
Alexios said, smilingly, ‘Less likely? That’s encouraging.’ Then more seriously, he said, ‘It’ll be nice to sleep indoors for once.’ Then he tilted his head. ‘Tell me about Alcidas?’  
Much of the journey to the city passed with Brasidas venting his spleen, relieved to be able to share his thoughts openly with total confidence that they would never reach anyone else’s ears. He told Alexios about the weeks before Corcyra and then all that had occurred during the short campaign, including the heated words he’d spoken to the admiral, before he said, ‘Since we returned to Kylene, he hasn’t let me forget it. He only asks for my advice so that he can openly deride it before the polemarches. He doesn’t realise that most of them are disgusted with his behaviour – and probably wouldn’t care if he did know it.’  
Alexios had listened with quiet attention; at last he said with a hint of humour in his voice, ‘I could kill him for you, if you like.’  
Brasidas looked at him in horror, but then caught the tail end of his smile. He sighed with relief. ‘Don’t even joke about it. It would look worse than you can imagine for me if you did.’  
‘How much longer? Before you’re free to return to Sparta?’  
‘Until the beginning of winter, as usual.’ He said this as though he had no choice, but that wasn’t entirely true. After the Corcyrean expedition, Archidemos had been sympathetic. Brasidas knew that as soon as he laid out the situation with Lagos to the king, he would grant him permission to go to Arkadia; but he’d decided to stay in Elis until the Games. He’d heard that Boeotia had been taken, Plataea sacked, so he knew that Alexios had been busy in the north; and he’d known that his best chance of meeting with the misthios would be to wait for the Games. He wanted to ask him to go with him to Arkadia - for purely business reasons, of course, he told himself. He cleared his throat, ‘Though I think we may have a business to take us to Arkadia.’  
‘Us?’ he asked with a smile.  
Brasidas nodded. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’ He gestured to the many people on the road, and Alexios nodded. ‘But in the meantime, tell me about Boeotia. I heard something about four champions that were killed by a mysterious eagle-bearing misthios?’  
A smile quirked the corner of his mouth for a moment, before he sobered once more. ‘I hardly know where to start; but I met Nikolaos again.’  
Brasidas said, ‘He’s well?’  
Alexios nodded but he looked worried. ‘He said he intends to return to Sparta with Stentor. He’s a deserter of course; what will the ephors do, do you think?’  
Brasidas sighed. ‘I don’t know. Anyone else, I’d say they would be cast out or executed; but Nikolaos…’ He trailed off, with a shake of his head. ‘He’s revered in Sparta. I cannot imagine anyone voting that fate for him.’  
Alexios nodded quietly, but then launched into telling him about meeting Stentor, tracking down the champions and then the conquest battle which they had won by the narrowest of margins – a margin that Brasidas knew was no doubt purely his doing.  
Brasidas listened closely, and without realising he was doing it, he gazed at Alexios as he was speaking; his thoughts drifted, and he found himself remembering one morning when they had come back to Mesoa very late. Brasidas had fallen asleep on the couch while halfway through eating an apple. He’d woken some time later, and found Alexios sitting on the floor cross-legged, looking out the window making arrows in his lap without even looking at them; but when Brasidas had stirred, he’d looked over at him and in the lamplight, Brasidas had seen a hunger in his look which had made his stomach lurch – but the look was only the briefest of moments before it was gone, and he’d apologised quietly if he’d woken him. He’d thought Alexios must have been thinking of someone else – Thaletas, probably – but his own reaction to the look had been much harder to explain, though now he knew that he was… Well… maybe he wasn’t that sure, he amended, flushing.  
‘What are you thinking about?’ Alexios suddenly asked, and Brasidas only then realised he was openly staring.  
‘Sorry,’ he said, flushing more fully. ‘I was just thinking about work.’  
Alexios quirked an eyebrow. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Brasidas.’  
They’d reached the city, and flustered, Brasidas said, ‘I have to drop my horse at the Temple of Hades and report to Alcidas. If you seek out the notice board, the apartment faces it. The upstairs balcony door is open.’  
Alexios watched his face as he gave these directions with a look in which Brasidas read a combination of confusion and worry, but the misthios said quietly, ‘Alright. I’ll meet you there later.’

That night, Brasidas was relieved to find that Alexios seemed to have forgotten the earlier conversation and was his usual cheery self. He was ashamed of the errancy of his thoughts and while he’d been with Alcidas and the men at the Temple of Hades, he’d firmly determined to put a stop to his feelings altogether. He and Alexios were the best of friends – that was all. It wasn’t right for a Spartan to allow their feelings to dictate their behaviour, and he had gone back to his apartment with this determination firmly fixed in his mind.  
With a kylix of wine in hand, he told Alexios what he had learnt about Lagos - or what he suspected.  
Alexios frowned. ‘If he’s a cultist, even if he’s your friend, he has to die, you know that.’  
Brasidas said earnestly, ‘If I only ever ask one thing of you Alexios, it’s that you talk to him before you cut his throat.’  
Alexios considered this for a moment, holding Brasidas’ gaze until Brasidas felt the colour rise to his cheeks, and his heart began to race a little, against his will; but at last Alexios said, ‘Alright. Meet me in Arkadia when you’re finished here. Then you’ll be in as much trouble as I will if you’re wrong.’  
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll meet you at the Statue of Artemis in the Cedar.’  
Alexios nodded, and drained his cup. ‘Anyway…’ he said, suddenly changing the subject back to an interrupted conversation from earlier in the evening, ‘You still haven’t told me why they won’t vote you into the Admiral’s role next year. You’ve been a successful advisor for two campaigning seasons - what more can they want?’  
He smiled at the naïveté of it; but he replied simply, ‘They might, but that will depend on how much damage this mess with Alcidas does my reputation. They may vote me Polemarch instead, which I think I’d prefer.’ He thought about it for a moment, and then said confidingly, ‘I hate boats. It’s a cruel trick of the Fates that I’ve come to be considered an expert on the Navy.’  
Alexios chuckled. ‘The gods do like to play their tricks.’  
Brasidas sighed, and said with the slightest hint of bitterness, ‘They do.’  
Alexios was, as always, attuned to the nuances of what he said. He tilted his head, and said softly, ‘Earlier, when you rushed off. I suppose you have a woman you don’t wish to talk about. I didn’t mean to pry.’  
Brasidas glanced at him then swiftly away, afraid that despite all his resolves, his feelings would be clearly visible on his face. He said hastily, ‘No harm done,’ before feigning a yawn and saying, ‘I better get to sleep.’  
Alexios patted his shoulder and stood, though there was the shadow of a question still lingering in his expression...  
‘Sleep well,’ he said. ‘I still have a few tasks to do tonight, just in case I wake you coming in. I’d rather not get a dagger through the throat.’  
Brasidas smiled. ‘I’ll try to remember - but if you come in drunk, I may just forget.’  
‘Fair warning,’ Alexios said grinning, passing out onto the balcony before jumping straight off, into the street below - Brasidas heard a startled exclamation from someone below, and Alexios apologising.  
He shook his head, preparing for bed. He stretched out on the straw pallet and blew out the lamp, but lay for a long time looking into the darkness, wondering at himself, and despite his desperation to stop thinking about it at all, slowly allowing himself to explore the feelings that had begun opening up in him... the possibilities they presented... and the potential for disaster…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note:  
> I'm a year out on the Olympics - they were held in 428 BC rather than 427.


	12. The Decline of a King... or Two

427 BCE

Late summer

The following morning, both men were up before Helios. They dressed and prepared for their days, before saying gruff goodbyes in the cool morning air. Brasidas was tired, having slept only fitfully; but Alexios was his normal self, cheerfully confident.  
‘I’ll be back by the week’s end, to show you the wreath,’ he said with a grin.  
Brasidas scoffed but then smiled. He said as warmly as he dared, ‘Good luck, Alexios.’  
They clasped hands, and then the misthios dashed away towards Olympia.  
Brasidas went in the opposite direction, to the Temple of Hades.  
He arrived to find a Spartan messenger pacing restlessly on the steps. When he saw Brasidas, he looked relieved. ‘Sir,’ he said, bowing his head.  
Brasidas raised his eyebrows in inquiry. ‘What is it?’ He’d sent a messenger to Archidemos only the day before to request permission to go to Arkadia; he thought it strange that a reply should have come so soon – but not impossible.  
‘I come from King Archidemos. He requests that you should return to Sparta as soon as practicable.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘Can I ask why? I have some matters that need tying up here.’ This seemed a strange response to his request.  
The messenger looked a little surprised; he said, ‘I do not recommend any delays which aren’t strictly necessary.’  
‘Alright,’ Brasidas said, confused. ‘I will ride for Sparta today.’  
The messenger nodded, and then said, ‘I must carry a message to Alcidas also. Where can I find him?’  
‘He’ll be at his apartment in the city centre until mid-morning. One of the men can show you the way.’ He ordered the nearest soldier to do so, and after they’d gone, he went into the temple to find Praxidas. He wasn’t riding back to Sparta alone.  
They reached the city in the late afternoon, and went directly to the throne room, Brasidas anticipating that he would find Archidemos there.  
The guard at the door shook his head with a puzzled look. ‘He’s at his residence, sir.’  
Brasidas frowned. Archidemos was a work-horse. It was unlike him not to work from dawn until dusk. ’Why?’  
The guard looked slightly confused by the question. ‘You haven’t heard?’  
‘Heard what?’  
‘King Archidemos is unwell; has been since his return from Plataea. He comes to the throne room only in the early morning now.’ He paused before adding, ‘Messengers were sent to all bases, including Kylene, with the news a few days ago.’  
Brasidas slowly shook his head, his face darkening. He’d always known that Alcidas was a bastard, but to have kept this from him… He clenched his fists; but in his usual voice, he thanked the guard, before setting out towards the Leader House, leaving Praxidas to deal with the horses.  
Archidemos was sitting up in bed dictating a despatch to a secretary. When he saw Brasidas being shown in by one of the guards though, he ordered the helot out, and gestured that Brasidas should sit.  
As he did so, he looked the king over. There was no obvious sign that he was sick – he looked like his usual self, though it was odd to see him in bed. Brasidas noted that as he shifted his position, attempting to sit up straighter, he winced with discomfort before settling again.  
Archidemos saw that he had noticed, and said matter-of-factly, ‘It’s something internal. Nothing to be done but wait for Thanatos; that’s why I sent for you. There are things that I would trust to no one else, and I don’t know how much time I have.’  
Brasidas, his mind whirling with this terrible news, said as equably as he could, ‘Whatever it is, you can consider it done.’  
The king smiled slightly, ‘I knew I could count on you. My son, Agis. He will need your guidance and support when the time comes.’  
‘Of course. He will have it.’ Brasidas knew Agis quite well – a man of thirty at a guess, very like his father to look at, and with a lot of promising traits: the same solid sense as Archidemos; the same drive to be a good man and a good Spartan; and a reasonable nature, which was not always the case with the scions of the royal houses.  
Archidemos nodded gratefully. ‘I need you to speak with as many of our supporters as you can; ensure they’re going to do the right thing.’ When Brasidas had promised that he would, he changed the subject. ‘This situation in Arkadia. You think it warrants attention immediately?’  
Brasidas considered this, and after a moment, shook his head. ‘It can wait a little longer. Lagos is still providing grain to the fleet, though at a premium. His corruption is undoubted, but he has yet to turn on us.’  
Archidemos sighed. ‘In the nearly forty years I’ve been on the throne, I’ve seen more Spartans than I like to admit fall victim to the lust for gold. Man’s supreme weakness.’ He paused for a moment, closing his eyes and swallowing heavily; when he opened his eyes again, he said, ‘I need to sleep, I think. You’ll meet me in the throne room tomorrow morning and we can talk more then.’  
Brasidas stood and bowed his head, saying good night.  
Out in the street once more, he allowed the wave of sadness he’d kept firmly bottled to sweep over him. He clasped his hands behind his back and closed his eyes for a long moment, oblivious to the curious looks of people passing by. He felt as though a cold wind was blowing inside his chest. Archidemos was not only his king, but his greatest supporter and perhaps even a friend. Not only his own life and career, but Sparta as he knew it, would be utterly changed by his death.  
He took a deep breath, valiantly trying to put his feelings aside, and went to fetch his horse from the nearby stables; but as he rode slowly towards Mesoa and home, looking up at the stars in the sky, the crescent moon hanging low above the mountains, the truth was he was exhausted.  
He rubbed the area between his eyes to ease the headache that was forming there. He needed sleep, badly.

Early Autumn

Brasidas stood on a hillside above Tegea, looking out into the night, Myrrine somewhere behind him preparing a meal. They’d got along well enough on the journey. Though they disagreed on almost everything, they were both respectful of the other; but more than once he’d wished he’d said no when she had asked to accompany him. Some of her expressions were pure Alexios, and every time, he felt it in his chest.  
He had stayed in Sparta until the end of summer, and much of that time had been spent with Archidemos and Agis, both in public and in private meetings at the Leader House. They’d come to feel confident that the transition of power would be an easy one, and Archidemos felt so content with things, that his attention had shifted to the situation in Arkadia. He agreed that Brasidas should go; resolving the situation before he died could only be of use in making Agis’ first months on the throne easier.  
Brasidas had been too busy to think about Alexios, or he told himself he was. He buried himself in work and spent hours training himself into physical exhaustion at the gymnasium, day and night. If he did catch himself flushed with warm thoughts, he reminded himself sternly that he was in danger of breaking the laws of Sparta. That went some way to creating a kind of barrier to indulging his lustful thoughts… albeit a flimsy one.  
He reminded himself for the thousandth time that Alexios’ age was problematic - once a man had left the agoge at nineteen, it was considered inappropriate and disgusting to have a relationship with him; and in any case, Brasidas’ bachelor status would have prohibited him having a relationship with him, even if Alexios had been young and in the agoge; that was a privilege granted only to married men. He was still expected to remarry and have sons, as his pater reminded him regularly, and he’d been on the brink of approving him to seek out a suitable wife many times since he’d returned to the city. Perhaps it really was time… perhaps a woman in his life would do more than anything to drive this crazy infatuation out of his head once and for all… He could hope.  
Anyway, he thought, there were other very good, political reasons that he should reject the attraction. The misthios was considered by many in Sparta as a bad apple – the killing of the elder on Mount Taygetos was far from forgotten. Then there were all of those with connections to the Eurypontid line, who feared that if Alexios was accepted back into the Spartan fold, he would be a contender for the Agiad throne. To remain on the good side of the Equals, any connection with a member of the royal house was to be approached with caution; and Brasidas, with his non-aristocratic, and far from the wealthy, family, not to mention the damage he'd no doubt done by alienating Alcidas, was not popular enough that he could ignore that fact with impunity – especially now that Archidemos wouldn’t be there to shore up his support. He hoped that Agis would help, but he wouldn't know until the young man was king.  
He looked up into the sky, and against the full moon, saw an eagle silhouetted for a moment. ‘He’s coming,’ Brasidas said over his shoulder.  
Myrrine came to stand beside him, looking out at the plain below, squinting. Tegea was a scattering of lights in the inky blue of the night. ‘How do you know?’  
‘Ikaros,’ he explained.  
The sound of a horse followed a moment later from the direction of the road, and they both turned; Myrrine smiling with pleasure as Alexios dismounted from Phobos, and Brasidas with his heart hammering, thoughts scattering.  
Alexios greeted his mater first, and then clasped hands with Brasidas, the two men beaming at each other; but they’d barely said chaire before Myrrine launched into business. She was certain that Lagos ought to be killed out of hand, and nothing Brasidas had said had swayed her in the slightest. She said with a hard edge to her voice, ‘I say we put that archon’s head on a pike. Our message to the puppet king in Sparta must be clear.’  
Alexios said patiently, ‘Let’s find out more about what’s going on in Arkadia first, Mater. We should be able to solve this Lagos problem without too many beheadings.’  
Myrrine shook her head and said pointedly to Brasidas, ‘That man is working for the Cult of Kosmos, not Sparta.’  
Brasidas said with quiet determination, ‘Then we need to free him from their grasp. We should begin by investigating a safe house he keeps. There might be some evidence there.’  
Myrrine frowned fiercely. ‘You’re letting sentimentality cloud your judgement.’  
Brasidas shook his head. ‘It’s not sentimentality. Thousands of Spartans depend on Lagos for food and protection – not least, the entire fleet out of Elis. His death would bring chaos and give the Athenians the opening they’re looking for.’  
‘Looks like I came just on time then,’ Alexios said, a smile of sympathy shot in Brasidas’ direction. ‘I’m with Brasidas. His strategy makes sense, Mater.’  
Brasidas smiled, feeling stupidly proud of the support he’d already known he had. He added, ‘And if you’re right Myrrine, and he cannot be brought around, then we can take a more violent course if necessary.’  
Myrrine shook her head, but saw that she had lost the argument.  
Alexios said to Brasidas, ‘We should go to the safe house now. No need to delay.’  
He readily agreed, and after Alexios had spoken a few further words to his mother, the two men turned down the hill towards Tegea.  
As they made their way along the walls of Tegea, Alexios leading the way, he said, ‘I heard in Elis about Archidemos. Are you alright?’  
He glanced back, and in the bright moonlight, Brasidas met his eye for a moment. Words deserted him as he came up against the unfamiliarity of being asked how he felt in anything other than a physical pain sense, and his inability to describe those feelings; but he managed to say awkwardly, ‘Yes. Thank you.’  
Alexios dropped back to walk beside him and caught his eye again, reading his face. Clearly, he saw much more than Brasidas had intended to reveal. He placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘I know you and he are on good terms. It must be difficult for you.’  
The warmth of the touch did things to Brasidas for which he had no name. He flushed, floundering for rationality; he began speaking without really knowing what he was saying, just wishing to fill the silence. He said stupidly, ‘A good Spartan knows that Thanatos comes for us all. Archidemos is ready, as we all must be.’  
In the bright wash of moonlight, Alexios stopped walking, and Brasidas paused, turning back to look at him in enquiry. Alexios met his eye with an intensity that left Brasidas holding his breath, the blood rushing to his face. In a tone of voice he’d never heard before – slightly husky, warm... caressing even – Alexios said, ‘Brasidas… I wonder…’ He trailed off, seemingly choosing his words.  
Brasidas spoke in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own – ragged, fearful even. ‘Yes?’  
Alexios looked at him for a moment, a look crossing his face that Brasidas couldn’t read - then his jawline set, and he shook his head. ‘Never mind. This is the safe house, I think?’  
Brasidas had stopped paying attention to where they were going some time ago; he looked ahead and saw that they had arrived. ‘Yes, it is.’ He turned to Alexios then, determined to ask what he had been about to say, but the Eagle-Bearer had slipped away in the crop at a crouch, and Brasidas was forced to follow after him, the moment lost.

Winter

Brasidas was waiting outside the Throne Room while Myrrine and Alexios were inside, speaking with the kings; they had every hope of regaining their home and citizenship since Alexios had done all that they had requested; but they had still been understandably tense at the possible results of laying out Pausanias’ treachery before the ephors.  
He took up a position in the open colonnade opposite the throne room, and paced back and forwards, eyes fixed on the closed doors. He’d been in the last year of the agoge when the previous Agiad king, Pleistoanax, had been exiled from Sparta for failing to defeat the Athenians when he had the chance. He remembered that day vividly, so he knew that there was the potential for disaster. Pleistoanax had been fortunate to reach Gytheion unscathed – he’d been surrounded by a clique of supporters who had beaten back anyone who tried to take what they thought to be justice into their own hands. There had been casualties; and Pausanias was more popular than Pleistoanax had ever been. Brasidas noticed a small group of soldiers gathering nearby, who like him, had their eyes glued to the doors of the Throne Room. Otherwise, the people in the forecourt were chatting happily in the sunshine, oblivious to the drama that was unfolding inside.  
The peace was shattered a moment later as the doors burst open, and Pausanias was flung out into the forecourt, the ephors and guards who had been in the Throne Room following in a noisy rush.  
Pausanias was immediately on his feet, brushing down his tunic; everyone was shouting at him, and he was shouting back, interspersed with curses aimed at Alexios and Archidemos, and anyone else that he could think of. The cluster of soldiers who had been waiting hurried to his side, and in an undignified huddle, they hustled him away, towards the road to Gytheion.  
A moment later, Alexios and Myrrine came out into the forecourt, Alexios’ face like a thundercloud. He saw Brasidas and nodded, and then taking out his spear, strode after the group of soldiers and Pausanias, disappearing up the stairs into the main thoroughfare through the city.  
Brasidas went to join Myrrine. ‘They exiled him then?’  
She nodded with satisfaction. ‘And granted us our citizenship and lands once more.’  
He smiled, though he felt he was forcing himself to. ‘Then it is good news all around.’ He excused himself then, and went into the throne room, which had emptied when Pausanias had been expelled; only Archidemos and the two guards at the door remained.  
The king was staring at the floor, his eyes glazed over; he looked up when he heard Brasidas approaching, and said, ‘I can hardly believe it.’  
Brasidas said with sympathy, ‘As I could not – and yet the evidence cannot be doubted.’  
He nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment. ‘I think we both know what the Agiad house will do now. They will insist that Pleistoanax be recalled from exile.’  
Brasidas had already considered that possibility. ‘What should we do about that?’  
Archidemos sighed tiredly. ‘Nothing. He’s a spineless, unintelligent man. You can only watch and see whether he fails Sparta again – which he almost certainly will.’ He stood then, wincing at the pain in his side. ‘Call the guards, would you. It’s time I went home.’

That evening, Brasidas was standing on the balcony of his family home in Mesoa, looking out across the world, lost in thought. Below him, terraces of flowers rolled down to meet the Eurotas River where it meandered past the township, and beyond that, the forest rolled away to the foot of Sparta’s akropolis with the dramatic Temple of Athena Chalkioikos gracing its top, the usually red stone a dusky golden-pink in the evening light. It was very beautiful, but he hardly noticed.  
His attention was caught by Alexios, who was coming across the bridge towards the house; the misthios seemed to sense Brasidas’ presence, or had already sought him out using that eagle of his. He looked up and raised a hand. Brasidas did likewise and called out, ‘I’ll come down.’  
Up close, Alexios looked grim. ‘Pausanias is dead,’ he said bluntly, looking at Brasidas almost defiantly.  
Brasidas calmly nodded, looking at Alexios’ face as he said, ‘Good.’  
Alexios looked at him for a moment as though waiting for something more; Brasidas just looked back. He’d told Alexios he thought that Pausanias deserved to die; why he was now looking at him as though expecting objections, he couldn’t say.  
He no longer felt able to read the misthios at all, though he had never been good at it. They hadn’t been alone since the night outside the Safe House, because Alexios had disappeared or because Myrrine was with them; but even so, Brasidas had felt the change in Alexios like the first snow of winter. A door had closed, and he was left staring at the outside.  
He’d spent fruitless time trying to figure out what he had said or done that had caused the distance between them, but did not know. What he did know was that it pained him deeply, and he had promised himself that if he got the chance, he would ask.  
He took a deep breath, and said, ‘Alexios – I have to ask…’  
Alexios shook his head and said sternly, ‘Don’t.’  
Brasidas was taken aback by his tone, but he said firmly, ‘No – I want you to tell me why you’re treating me like this.’  
Alexios’ face was unreadable; he turned and took a few agitated paces away, then a few paces back. He looked at Brasidas, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.  
At last, he blurted, ‘I only came here tonight because I wanted to tell you…’ He stopped again, and cursed to himself. Giving up on words, he looked at Brasidas, and swallowing heavily, he consciously allowed the mask he had had in place to slip.  
There was such uncertainty on his face that the truth hit Brasidas like a landslide. For a moment they just stared at each other, as an understanding snaked between them. Brasidas felt that he could have been looking into a mirror - Warmth... longing… lust... hope... fear...  
Brasidas, his heart hammering in his chest, courage coming from he knew not where, stepped toward the misthios, took Alexios’ wrists gently, one in each hand, and said very softly, almost a whisper, ‘Alexios, do you love me?’  
Alexios whispered, ‘Yes… but I dared not hope…’  
What Brasidas felt was beyond words; what he said, with aching tenderness, was, ‘I am with you.’ He ached to press his lips to Alexios', but he dared not here, in a public place. Instead, with ineffable gentleness, he took Alexios' face between his hands, and pressed their foreheads together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:  
> Fair warning; in this and the coming few chapters, I am playing very fast and loose with the plotline of Odyssey. This is, in part, because Brasidas and Alexios having a relationship in the background of the game changes things quite a lot, and in some cases, because of irreconcilable conflicts with known history... Just so you don't think I've bumped my head and forgotten how things went in the game :)
> 
> Historical notes:  
> We don't actually know what killed Archidemos - his death isn't even mentioned in the histories; we only know he died in this year because the next year, it is Agis as king leading the Spartan army. I find this odd, as he is in general mentioned a lot by Thucydides - but there we have it: The whims of the historical record as we have received it.  
> You probably know that Pausanias didn't exist in history; Pleistoanax did. He was exiled in 446 BCE.  
> The details of the Spartan law and custom around male lovers and marriage I've taken from Plutarch, Xenephon and Cartledge after them.  
> Cartledge draws attention to Brasidas being from a non-aristocratic family; this wouldn't in the scheme of things prohibit his taking a lover in the royal house (they were both Spartiates, which was what really mattered) - Lysander, a non-aristocrat, and Archidemos' younger son Agesilaus (who unusually went through the agoge, unlike Agis), were lovers and no one thought anything of it.


	13. In Defiance

427 BC  
Winter

Brasidas and Alexios had just stepped apart breathlessly outside the house in Mesoa, both of them uncertain what to say or do next, when a messenger hailed Brasidas, and announced that Archidemos needed to see him immediately.  
Brasidas nodded to the messenger, and then said to Alexios, ‘We will continue this conversation later.’ He was pleased with how like himself he sounded, since in every way, he did not feel like himself at all.  
Alexios smiled, and assuming a casual tone, said, ‘I’ll be at the Temple of Athena Chalkioikos when you’re finished.’

Brasidas followed the messenger, and when they reached the Leader House, he expected to be shown straight in, but a gruff guard asked him to wait in the courtyard. He paced back and forth between the decorative screens with his hands behind his back. The soldiers paid him no attention, and so he was left to his own thoughts.  
His feelings were in a joyous state of riot; he had to consciously stop himself from grinning like a fool; had to stop his mind roving back to Alexios; to every detail of what had just happened between them, what would come next...  
He sternly told himself to get a grip, forcing himself to attend to the present moment. Why had Archidemos called him here at such an unusual time? He had to assume it was in relation to Pausanias’ death. He wondered if Archidemos knew that Alexios had killed him; he thought it highly unlikely he hadn’t figured that out.  
Gods, he thought. What if he asks me to arrest him so he can be put on trial?  
He was able to dismiss this idea almost immediately though; the Krypteia would be sent to do that kind of thing, not him. He wondered briefly whether they would try to arrest him – or to kill him. He didn’t like their chances if they tried, though.  
‘Brasidas.’  
He turned and found that Agis had come up behind him. ‘Chaire. Is your pater well?’  
The future king gestured for Brasidas to sit on a bench and then took up a position beside him, sighing heavily.  
‘No change,’ he said as he looked up at the scattering of stars above them, ‘He apologises that he can't see you now; he’s found he’s more exhausted by the events of this morning than he’d thought, so he asked me to speak with you instead.’ He looked at Brasidas then, watching his face closely as he continued, ‘He wishes you to be here in Sparta next year. He doesn't think he's going to see the next campaigning season, and for how much he suffers, I cannot help but hope he’s right; but, even if he’s wrong, it will fall to me to lead the army into Attika, and Pater wishes…’ He paused, and amended, ‘No – both Pater and I wish you to be my advisor when I do.’  
Brasidas said with real pleasure, ‘Of course. I have sworn to support you in any way you require. I shan’t break that oath.’  
Agis relaxed visibly. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and stood. ‘I had thought you might wish to return to Kylene instead. I know you have been doing important work with the fleet there.' When Brasidas shook his head, he said, 'Very good. I'll speak with our supporters and ensure that they vote accordingly.’  
Brasidas also stood. ‘Was that all?’  
Agis said it was, and they said goodnight.  
As he walked home again in the cool darkness, for the first time since learning of Archidemos’ illness, he felt a sense of certainty about the future. He was relieved to at least be certain that Agis truly trusted him, and promised himself he would do everything in his power to deserve it.

The Temple of Athena Chalkioikos was not the place Brasidas would have chosen to meet Alexios: there were too many soldiers and visitors there, even at that time of night; but he thought Alexios must have his reasons.  
He found him in the small room which contained a collection of artifacts that were either connected to Perseus or had been salvaged from the ship called the Argos. The misthios was looking with a frown at a net on display. He heard Brasidas coming, and smiled, but he didn’t look directly at him; he nodded as if they were simple acquaintances who just happened to be looking at the same net at the same time.   
Brasidas noticed a guard nearby looked at them curiously for a moment; after a moment he lost interest and Brasidas said, ‘This is not the most discrete place to meet.’ He nervously put his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels, their arms brushing against one another. The contact sent a frisson of excitement through him.  
Alexios’ smile became more pronounced. He looked at Brasidas from the corner of his eye. His voice was very warm as he said, ‘I thought it best to be somewhere that I’d be forced to keep my hands to myself.’  
Brasidas felt heat prickle his cheeks as he met Alexios’ gaze before hastily looking back at the net. He was determined to stay on topic, and said brusquely, ‘A wise decision. There are things that need to be said.’  
Alexios nodded, but for a long moment they were silent. Brasidas carefully chose his words. ‘You know that the Laws do not allow anything… open.’ When Alexios nodded that he did, Brasidas continued, ‘And for me, it is doubly important that I remain within the Laws. The situation with the king, with Agis – I will do nothing that will jeopardise that.’  
He said softly, ‘I would never ask you to.’  
Brasidas smiled gently, daring to meet his eye for a moment. ‘Good. Of course, we will be often apart. I go where Sparta sends me.’  
‘And I will continue to hunt the cult.’  
Brasidas nodded, once. ‘We understand one another then.’  
‘We do.’  
For a moment they smiled almost shyly at each other, then he said, 'Then there’s only one more thing for you to do.’  
‘Which is?’  
‘Follow me,’ Brasidas said.

The house had been Zoe’s pater’s – the same house Brasidas had married her in. It had been empty for years; but he sometimes used it when he needed time to think in peace, to brood over reverses, or simply to sleep when he had taken too much wine and wished to avoid his Mater’s disapproving eye.  
He was conscious as he fiddled with the door, which had a sticky catch, of Alexios’ presence behind him. He could almost feel the warmth he generated, like a low-banked furnace.  
Finally, he got the door open, and stepped in, Alexios following. There was little light in the main room, save what reached them through a tiny window from outside. As Brasidas fumbled about, trying to light a lamp, Alexios did nothing to help – on the contrary, he had come to press himself against Brasidas, his arousal obvious, his hands straying wherever he liked...  
The lamp at last spluttered to life, and Brasidas threw down the flint before saying with laughter in his voice, ‘You make it hard for a man to get things done!’  
‘Good,’ Alexios said with a mischievous grin, and leant down to kiss the junction of neck and shoulder before saying, ‘I live to please.’  
Brasidas chuckled and turned to face him then. ‘You do not.’  
Alexios just smiled. ‘You’ll see.’  
They faced each other for a moment before Brasidas asked, ‘Wine?’  
He nodded, and while Brasidas went to pour out a kylix from the amphora in the corner, Alexios sat on the couch which was pushed against one wall. ‘What is this place?’  
Brasidas didn’t answer immediately; but as he handed Alexios the kylix and sat down beside him, so close their thighs touched, he explained, ‘I use this house as a retreat for myself. Sometimes wine alone is not enough to deal with the politics. No one knows to look for me here.’  
Alexios smiled and took the kylix and a long drink from it.  
Brasidas waited until he had set the vessel down before reaching out a hand, caressing his cheek, the bristle of his beard regrowth rasping against his skin. In the mellow lamplight, their eyes met and held for a moment, then he leant forward and kissed Alexios on the lips… tenderly at first… then with increasing intensity…

Then he was lost in a world of pure sensation:  
the tingling trail left by gentle fingers against soft, tender skin…  
the warm wet heat of mouth, of wet kisses…  
skin sliding on skin, slick with sweat…  
whimpers of desire, gasping pleas of desperation, of beautiful surrender…  
the glorious sensuality of an arching spine…  
of guttural moans called forth from the deepest core of a man…  
and at last, the shattering bliss of release...

‘You’re mine,’ Brasidas mumbled into Alexios’ hair as he drifted asleep.  
Alexios murmured something Brasidas didn’t hear, but it didn’t matter. They both knew it was true.


	14. The Gymnopaedia

426 BC  
Summer

The sun was nearing its zenith, though its heat was still far from its peak, which would come in mid-afternoon. In the still, hot air, dust was hanging heavily over the training yard, kicked up by the feet of the scrawny boys who were training with wooden spears. These were the youngest class of the agoge, boys only seven to eight summers old. They had the same softness in their faces of younger children, but after half a summer of training, it had already begun to harden into something else - the face, as the leader of their class was shouting, of true Spartan warriors - lean, hungry, determined!  
Beyond them was the gymnasium, and older men passed by the training yard as they went to or from watching or taking part in matches going on inside. Sparta was unusually crowded at that time of year, because the Gymnopaedia festival was only a couple of days away. The city was flooded with travellers – Spartans from across Lakonia and Messenia, but also foreigners, many of them high ranked members of the allied states such as Korinthia and Boeotia. It was the one time of year when it was accepted and even encouraged for these men to come to Lakonia, and the wealthiest Spartan families, including the royal houses, always invited all their guest-friends to attend.  
Brasidas came out of the gymnasium grinning and shouting back into the doorway at a group of his friends who were calling him something unflattering in an attempt to goad him into another bout. He shouted back that they could go to Hades, and wiped his bloody nose on his bunched-up tunic without hesitating in his direction. A stray elbow had caught him during wrestling practice - but the pain had only made him more intent on winning, and his clumsy opponent was thoroughly beaten.  
Some of the white chalk he was covered in came off with the blood; the rest of it had been striped with his sweat, or was clumped in his beard, giving him a wild, unkempt look.  
He would have continued training until the midday meal, as was usual, but he was supposed to meet the kings in the Throne Room to discuss the possibility of a late season raid into Attika, after two earthquakes had stopped them at the beginning of the year. Only fools defied Poseidon the Earth-shaker. Brasidas knew the ephors and the Gerousia would almost certainly vote down the request if Agis talked himself into making it; but Agis was still young and keen. It wouldn’t hurt to let him learn the hard way that a king’s wishes availed nothing in the face of the religious reticence of the Spartan elders.  
He glanced at the boys training as he passed, and then turned towards home, walking out of the city and into the trees of the forest.  
Away from the crowds and the scrutiny of the men, his friends and brothers, he relaxed a little, allowing his mind to wander where it most liked to go - to Alexios, the memories of every beatific, blissful moment they’d snatched together, before spring had arrived and the misthios had gone wherever he was, to do whatever he might be doing. 

Brasidas had ridden to Gytheion with Alexios on the day he left Sparta. They’d spent the night before wrapped in one another’s arms, murmuring sweet promises and all the other nonsense that Brasidas was amazed to find himself articulating; so when the time came to ride for the coast, they were content to just take their time on the road, travelling in a warm and companionable silence, taking pleasure in these last moments together before separation, without anything needing to be said.  
At the dock, they had clasped hands as though they were just good friends saying goodbye, though an observant man might have noticed that their hands lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary, and that the look they shared was anything but platonic.  
‘I’ll see you at the beginning of autumn,’ Brasidas had said, keeping his voice carefully upbeat. ‘Safe travels.’  
Alexios had smiled. ‘Or perhaps sooner - I don’t know what I’ll find on Melos. Take care of yourself, Brasidas.’  
Then he turned and strode away, squaring his shoulders and not looking back until he was on the ship – and then, only long enough to raise a hand in farewell.  
Brasidas had waved back, then turned towards home. He’d ridden back to Sparta feeling for the first time the strange emptiness that came from parting with someone who took his heart with him – he had always been the one doing the leaving; but he’d soothed himself with the thought that he would be riding into Attika within a few days. Once his life had resumed its familiar pattern, he would surely think less about the crazy situations Alexios would almost certainly getting himself into.  
He wasn’t worried, as such; only a little… concerned.

He reached the river where it caressed the curve of the foothill that Mesoa stood on, and dove into the cool, clear water, swiftly washing off the chalk and blood with his bunched up tunic, before rinsing it out and scrambling out, up the muddy bank.  
The town was bustling with people coming and going. He noticed a group of girls who had gathered in one of the fields and were practicing their dancing for the coming festival; then he saw that some curious young boys had found a balcony to peep at them from, giggling amongst themselves. He smiled and shook his head, remembering doing the same thing himself.  
His smile swiftly faced. The thought reminded him of one of the more difficult discussions he and Alexios had had. Tied in to maintaining the general perception of himself as a good Spartan, living within the laws, Brasidas was going to have to take a wife. They both knew it to be true, had both acknowledged it – but so deeply in love with one another as they were, the idea was almost unbearable. Brasidas had delayed telling his pater to seek out someone suitable, thinking always that he would do it the next day… but the day hadn’t yet come when he could bring himself to say the words, and now the Gymnopaedia was upon them again.  
The thought made him grimace as he walked up the slope to the house. While most of Sparta looked forward to the festival, for Brasidas and other unmarried men with no sons, it was a source of fear, loathing and suffering. He was not permitted to attend the festivities; that was, except for the part of the ceremony he was required to take part in: the annual ritual humiliation of bachelors.  
‘I didn’t expect you home,’ Argileonis said interrupting his thoughts from where she stood in the open door. She looked him up and down, and in her habitual way of posing questions as statements, she asked, ‘You’ve come from training.’  
‘Yes. Agis wishes to see me in the Throne Room.’ He held up the muddy, sopping wet tunic. ‘I just need to change.’  
Argileonis seemed not to hear him; she was looking at the girls in the distance dancing, her face as always totally inscrutable. She said, ‘When will you tell Tellis to arrange another marriage for you? It is time now.’ She looked at him then, meeting his eye.  
He knew she hated to see him humiliated every year, had seen the pain in her eyes the first year he had been a part of the ceremony. She’d told him in her usual, quiet way that she hated it because he suffered; but he thought she could not be oblivious to the rumours which were in circulation – ironically, without truth when they started. His pater was worried about the political impact of his reticence, of the talk it generated, and he agreed that the worry was well placed.  
Brasidas smiled gently. ‘Soon, Mater.’  
She said, ‘You cannot want to go through it again.’  
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Of course not.’  
‘Then promise me - this will be the last time, my son.’  
He looked at her for a long moment. He couldn’t recall a single occasion when she had asked him for anything in his entire life. She’d been everything a Spartan woman was meant to be; she had said a firm goodbye when the day had come for him to go to the agoge, and had remained aloof from him until Zoe had died; then she had selflessly come to live with him. Even then, she’d listened to him talk quietly, praised him when he did well, consoled him if he felt he’d failed in some way; and still, never once had she requested a single thing from him until now.  
He took her hands in his, and said lovingly, ‘I promise, Mater.’  
She held his eye with the shadow of something in her face. He thought she looked surprised; and then he realised that the warmth he had betrayed was not like him, nor the behaviour of a good Spartan – it was the warmth of a man in love, who was loved; the warmth that filled his heart had spilled over. His first impulse was to drop her hands and apologise, but he set his jaw and waited it out. She searched his face – he wondered what she was thinking – but she said quietly, ‘I will tell Tellis.’  
He nodded, aware of a lump in his throat as he went inside to change, aware that she followed him with her eyes. 

The first day of the Gymnopaedia arrived - another hot, dry day, without even a shred of cloud in the sky. The sacrifices completed, there was an air of excitement as the crowd of men, women and children gathered at the agora. During much of the year, the agora was just another market place and business centre; but when the stalls were cleared away for the Gymnopaedia, a roughly oval-shaped course was revealed which encompassed three statues Apollo, Artemis and Leto at the centre.  
Brasidas, naked and stony-faced, joined a group of some thirty or forty other Spartiate men - some only twenty-five, others like him, much older. He didn’t look at them, nor at the crowd, but turned his mind inward, and focussed his gaze on a point above the crowd.  
As soon as the head ephor of the year, Agesistratus, stepped forward onto the course, a silence fell. Once he had their attention, he began, ‘Everyone knows that Sparta is only as strong as the sons our wives bring forth into this world - and thus it was that the great lawmaker, Lycurgus, laid down that all men should marry while in their prime and beget sons.’  
He paused for dramatic effect, looking at the crowd, then swinging around to point an accusatory finger at the group of naked men. He said, ‘These men have broken that law! They have brought shame on their families, shame to Sparta, and spat on the bounty of the gods.’ There was deathly silence in the crowd; Agesistratus paused again, then addressed the statues in the centre of the course. ‘Oh, mighty Artemis! Golden Apollo! Glorious mother Leto! May you hear the words of these men when they raise their voices! May you be appeased by their humility!’  
This was the bachelors’ cue to begin walking, keeping in a military formation; raising their voices together, they began singing as enthusiastically as they could, a song that would be seared into Brasidas memory for eternity:

Forgive us, immortal gods!  
We have defied the laws of gods and men,  
of Sparta and the natural order,  
We are wrong to turn our faces from duty!  
We sing to you, we beg you to forgive our mistakes.  
Forgive us, immortal gods!  
even as you stand in judgement of us  
we hold our heads high and accept what is due to us -  
Knowing that we have done wrong,  
and that we deserve this punishment.

Carefully not looking at the crowd as he walked but knowing well enough what he would see on their faces, Brasidas thought abstractly that he would have preferred it if the crowd had jeered and hooted at them. The silent condemnation, the stares, the echoing of their singing sharp in the still heat of the agora… it was awful.  
They’d sung the song through three times before they reached the end of the course and had returned to the beginning once more; then they stopped, and there was moment of tense silence.  
Agesistratus stepped forward again, and said, ‘All here present have seen the faces of these men - remember them well! They do not deserve your respect! No man shall give up his place to they who have no wife, for he shall have no son to give up his place for you.’ He turned back to the naked group, and said fiercely, ‘You are barred from attending the games! Go back to your homes, hide your faces, and may the gods turn your path back to the laws.’  
Once the ceremonial part of the event was over, the crowd began talking again, and Brasidas walked out of the agora conscious of the whispers and smothered giggles of the women who were always placed at the front of the crowd; probably, he thought, just so that this would happen – a man would leave the agora with their voices, their giggles in his ears – and that was more shaming that anything that had come before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Details of the festival come from Plutarch’s ‘Life of Lycurgus’ and Cartledge’s ‘The Spartans’ with a little (it pains me to admit) from Wikipedia - purely the detail that there were three statues in the agora of Leto, Apollo and Artemis. By the way, the article on wiki is questionable (read: wrong or unsourced) in many details, so if you were thinking of hitting it up for further details, I’d recommend going to Plutarch instead. Many modern sources say that the festival falls in summer, but Plutarch says the ceremonial humiliation was done in winter, so I had to pick one - I chose this option because it suited my timeline, when in general I follow the ancient sources.  
> The so-called song was invented by me, and please forgive how awful it is. I’m not much of a poet/songwriter!  
> As to whether a man of Brasidas’ age (around 39 at this point) would have had to participate in the humiliating spectacle is entirely uncertain. The ancient sources give no details on the specific age at which a man was expected to marry, nor if, having been married, he was expected to marry again. Somewhere along the way the idea had got into my head (from she knows not where) that it was between the ages of 25 and 35 – but as I could not find anything in the ancient sources to support that, I haven’t felt bound to it. There was a huge emphasis in Sparta on having sons, or at least three children (copied by the Romans, incidentally), and that has formed my decision to presume that men of his age were still considered in their prime, able to produce healthy sons, and therefore breaking the laws. I may be wrong!  
> The references to not giving these men any respect comes from Plutarch: 'Thus nobody objected to what was said to Dercyllidas, even though he was a distinguished general. When he approached, one of the younger men did not give up his seat to him, but said, "You have produced no son who will give his seat to me."' (Life of Lycurgus 15.)  
> Agesistratus was the head ephor that year (as reported in Xenophon’s ‘A History of My Times’); and Agis and his armies did turn back from an intended invasion into Attika due to Poseidon’s intervention (as reported by my bestie, Thucydides.)


	15. Reunion

426 BC Early winter.

‘Her name is Stamatia.’  
It was late, and this was the first chance they’d had to talk since Alexios had returned to Sparta early that morning. Brasidas had been at the dock to greet him, but so was his family and a dozen or more fans of the Olympic champion; so there had been no chance for more than the most cursory exchange of words but a promise had been made in glances. At the first chance they’d come to Brasidas’ hideaway. Brasidas at least had had no trouble getting away. He’d been at the mess, and when he left early, saying he was tired, he knew they’d assume he’d gone to his wife. The same rules still applied as when he was a younger man; he was meant to hide that he was visiting her; only now he really was hiding something he didn’t want them to know.  
Alexios was standing, leaning back against the wall, looking into the kylix in his hand. He was dressed in an outrageous set of armour - and Brasidas could feel himself becoming aroused by his half-dressed presence, even as Alexios brooded. Brasidas watched his face in the wavering light of the lamps, wondering what he might say. Alexios had opened the discussion, having heard about the marriage from somewhere or other. Brasidas had hoped that he’d be the one to have broken the news to him gently, but that was Sparta for you. News travelled fast.  
‘When?’ he asked quietly, looking up and meeting Brasidas’ eye and holding it.  
‘End of summer.’  
Alexios sighed and straightened, coming to sit beside him on the old couch. Up close, Brasidas could see that he looked more than just tired; it was almost as if the light that Brasidas had always admired in him had diminished. It worried him, that it might be his doing.  
Alexios said, very quietly, ‘I hate that it has to be like this.’ He saw Brasidas was about to object, but forestalled him by gently adding, ‘though I’ve accepted that it must be so. You did the right thing. Is she agreeable to you?’  
Brasidas was quiet for a moment as he took Alexios’ hand in his, tracing a new scar, still pink, at the base of his thumb. ‘I suppose the answer to that is yes. She’s a good Spartan woman. She asks nothing of me.’  
Alexios said, ‘That’s not what I meant. I mean - I hope you like her at least a little.’  
The answer was that he hardly knew, and he didn’t want to find out. She was probably lovely, full of wonderful surprises and intelligence just as Zoe had been, but he was afraid that if he discovered that, things would become hideously complicated. He couldn’t understand how the men who routinely had wives and lovers could bear it. He wondered why he was so different. It pained him.  
He reached out a hand to caress Alexios’ cheek and said simply, ‘I missed you.’  
Alexios leant into his hand with his eyes closed with a gentle smile. ‘I wanted to turn the ship around from the moment we left port.’  
‘What happened on Melos?’  
Alexios murmured, ‘The Battle of One Hundred Hands. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.’  
‘You were there all summer?’ Brasidas had allowed his hand to drift downwards, coming to rest where he could run an exploratory thumb along Alexios’ jawline; down his throat; then tracing fingers along the soft skin of his collarbone beneath the harness which was all the upper body armour he had on. He watched Alexios’ skin break out in goosebumps beneath his fingers as he gave a sigh of contentment.  
‘No. We went to Kythera, chasing another cultist - then to the Isle of Thisvi...’  
He frowned lightly, hand now tracing over the perfectly sculpted muscles of his shoulder, and down his back, the line of his spine, Alexios shifting slightly to allow him greater access. Distractedly, he asked, ‘Where?’  
‘It’s off the west coast of Boeotia.’  
He was undoing the armour now, his blood roaring in his ears, but he asked, ‘Another cultist?’  
‘No. Just a madman who thought he was a god. He was harmless.’  
Alexios removed the armour Brasidas had loosened over his head as he commented inanely, ‘A busy summer then.’  
‘Like every other since I left Kephalonia. Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed there.’ He turned to face Brasidas then, and said with a smile, ‘Now it’s your turn.’  
Brasidas smiled back, and allowed Alexios to begin removing his armour.  
‘How were things with Agis?’ He pressed his lips to the place he knew made Brasidas feel as though he was melting; his warm lips lingered at the base of his neck for a moment.  
‘Fine,’ Brasidas said with difficulty, closing his eyes with pleasure, ‘He’s already a good king.’  
‘He’s had the best of masters,’ Alexios said, as he lifted the breastplate away. ‘Archidemos and you.’ Then he stood, pulling Brasidas onto his feet, and removing his chiton. He looked over his body, and murmured, ‘perfection.’ Then he kissed him tenderly, while his hands wandered across the tender skin of his back which he knew became exquisitely ticklish when he was aroused.  
‘Come upstairs,’ Brasidas said huskily a moment later, ‘and leave that sad excuse for a pteruges here.’  
Alexios tried to feign being offended but chuckled as he cast the belt aside. ‘What do you mean? This was expensive!’  
Brasidas felt some of the weight he’d been carrying slip off his shoulders. He raised an eyebrow, smiling. ‘A few lengths of chain, a strip or two of leather, and a scrap of red cloth - You got duped.’  
Alexios laughed as they went upstairs, some of the sunshine Brasidas loved so much returning to his face once more. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t appreciate how flattering it is. I saw you looking this morning.’  
Brasidas shook his head, carefully not smiling; but his eyes were twinkling. ‘In consternation, not admiration.’  
They’d reached the room upstairs, and then there was no more conversation for a time - only pleasure, love, and the indescribable joy of being with each other again.

Brasidas woke from a deep sleep. It was still dark, and it took him a moment to figure out what had woken him. Then Alexios whimpered and began twitching in his sleep. He was covered in sweat.  
Brasidas shook him gently by the shoulder, his brow creased with concern.  
Alexios opened his eyes, and sat up. ‘What?’ he said looking around wildly.  
‘You were dreaming,’ he said.  
‘A nightmare,’ Alexios said, half to himself, rubbing his face with both hands. ‘Just a nightmare.’  
Brasidas rested a comforting hand on his shoulder, and after a moment, he glanced at his lover and visibly relaxed, dropping his head to kiss Brasidas’ knuckles.  
‘Do you want to talk about it?’  
Alexios hesitated for a moment, but then said, ‘I was in a dark place, the air thick with dust and ash which cloyed my throat... I was almost suffocating. I squeezed my eyes shut but somehow grit was still getting into them, and the wind... it carried the sound of babies crying and adults wailing in desolation... I could see in the distance a dancing flame - a beacon perhaps, or a burning village, I couldn’t see properly...’ He shook his head, as if trying to remove the memory manually.  
Brasidas stood, saying, ‘I’ll get the wine.’ He went downstairs, and when he came back, Alexios had climbed from the bed and was looking out the small, high window at the moon.  
‘Selene’s at the full,’ he said, half to himself. Brasidas had become accustomed to these absent observations on weather and the time of day, made to no one in particular; it was as though Alexios was reminding himself he was present in the world.  
‘Wine?’  
Alexios turned, looking at him blankly for a moment, his mind far away, before registering what he was being asked. ‘Yes, thank you.’  
Brasidas filled a beaker for him, and then one for himself. They returned to the bed, leaning their backs against the wall behind them, pulling the blanket up against the chill of the night air.  
After a moment, Alexios said, ‘It was Hades.’  
Brasidas looked at him with his eyebrows raised. ‘You sound very sure.’  
Alexios was silent for a moment before he said, ‘I’ve felt for some time that I’m... being called there.’ He tilted his head at Brasidas with a smile, seeing the dubious look on his face. ‘Not like my death is coming, but like Odysseus, I’m meant to visit the place.... I don’t know,’ he said, draining off his cup. ‘It’s just a feeling I have.’  
‘I think you spent too much time with this Kytheran madman of yours,’ Brasidas said, smiling. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you’re a god.’  
He winked. ‘Maybe I am.’ Then he sobered and changed the subject suddenly, ‘I know it’s early to ask, but do you know where you’re being sent in the summer?’  
He shrugged. ‘Nothing is certain, but back to the fleet I imagine.’  
‘Kylene?’  
He nodded.  
‘Not as Admiral?’  
He shook his head. ‘Alcidas has seen to that with his lies.’  
Alexios scowled. ‘Bastard.’  
Brasidas smiled at his vehemence. ‘The good news is, Sparta has rid herself of him. He was sent as a founding governor to a new colony in the north. He’s unlikely to come back.’  
Alexios narrowed his eyes slightly, a smile lurking on his lips. ‘Whose idea was that?’  
He said with mock solemnity, ‘The king’s, of course.’  
Alexios said with admiration, ‘You’re a crafty malaka,’ which made Brasidas grin; the misthios looked at him for a moment before saying with some intensity, ‘By the gods, I love you, Brasidas.’  
He laughed. ‘Because I’m crafty?’  
Alexios said teasingly, ‘Yes, exactly.’  
He smiled happily. ‘I love you, too,’ he said, eyes twinkling, ‘even though your craft could certainly use some work.’  
Alexios looked at him with rising heat; he said, ‘Put down the beaker and I’ll show you there’s nothing wrong with my craft.’  
Brasidas laughed, but he also put down the beaker very quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Alcidas was in fact one of three founder-fathers of a Spartan colony called Heracleia in Trachis which was set up in 426 BC (as per Thucydides).


	16. The Lost Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note:  
> OK, this chapter is where I really diverge from canon for a while, so I thought I should offer my reasons.  
> I personally disliked the whole plotline around the battle of Pylos – Kass attacking Brasidas and then Alexios saving Kass from under the burning tree before being squashed himself was just… not for me, let’s say; but as a lover of history, there are bigger issues.  
> I decided right at the beginning of writing this (unintentionally really freakin’ long) life of Brasidas that I would favour history over the game plotline, and honestly, this particular part of the game could not be further from historical truth if it tried.  
> So... If you’re expecting the first meeting of Deimos and Brasidas here, I’m sorry – it’s not coming. Feel free to imagine shooting me full of arrows if it helps. I have an alternate version in my head of the meeting at this point in the game between Kass and Alexios in Athens (because I think that was kind of the point of including them both at Pylos, right? Alexios had to have a chance to persuade her that she was being used as a puppet by the Cult before the Amphipolis business…) which I will allude to in the coming chapters. I don’t think that Brasidas needs to be attacked by her at this point. My personal opinion is that it was only included as a small nod – or, one raised eyebrow and a sideways glance – at the actual history…  
> Alright, yes - I’m a little salty about this part of the game lol If you loved it, then I'm sorry... I've broken it 😉

425BCE  
Late Spring

Brasidas ducked out of the sleeping tent he shared with two other men who had been made the commander of a trireme back at fleet headquarters in Kylene just as he had. They were a good pair, and neither snored much, which was rare enough. That was really all he asked of his tentmates… well, that and, if they should take a lover, they might take him elsewhere he added wryly to himself; though that had not been a problem so far thankfully.  
He stretched, put his shield on his back, and sniffed the air – the smell of the sea, the smell of cooking bread from the camp ovens; the smell of mud and of coming rain. It was overcast and cold; no change from the previous day, then.  
Corcyra could be seen as a dark hunched shape brooding in the distance across the sea, half hidden by a mist of falling rain; in the foreground lay part of the fleet – thirty ships riding at anchor, carefully arranged in neat rows, while the other thirty blockaded the island, out of sight. He paused, looking down, and allowed himself a moment of pride, to see them there. Considering not so many years before, Sparta had had no navy at all, they’d come a long way. Few could dispute that he had personally been an important part of that; but Brasidas knew they were still no match for the Athenians when faced with equal numbers; there was still a lot of work to be done.  
This was made difficult by a general reluctance of those in power – ephors and kings alike - to acknowledge how necessary the navy was. No king sailed with the fleet, after all – but Brasidas thought that their reluctance wouldn’t change without some major shifts in how Spartans in general thought… and that would probably never happen, he added with a sigh. They were stubborn and set in their ways to the last man.  
He made his way through the camp towards the headquarters tent where he had been summoned to a meeting with the latest Admiral – a man called Thrasymelidas, a mountain of a man: tall and broad, with a quiet manner that Brasidas found appealing. The sailors he met on the way – most of them just returning from the night-watch - greeted Brasidas as he passed, and he smiled and exchanged a few words with each, having lost none of his human touch. His posting as a commander might - and perhaps should - have been considered a slap in the face, but it had in no way diminished his popularity with the men; if anything, it had increased it.  
There had been an uproar when the vote was taken in the Assembly of Equals a couple of weeks earlier, and many of the Equals had gone so far as to boo Alcidas openly - the men in the street, the perioeki who served in Sparta’s army, were even more open with their disgust. Brasidas had honestly been surprised at his own popularity. His pater had just shaken his head when he'd said as much; he'd fondly told him that sometimes, he really was too humble.

The headquarters tent stood on a knoll overlooking the anchorage, and Thrasymelidas was standing at the doorway, looking thoughtfully down to the coast.  
‘Chaire, Admiral,’ Brasidas said with a smile. ‘Weather’s good.’  
Thrasymelidas snorted through his nose. ‘Another day in Elysium,’ he said in his sonorous voice, before growing serious. ‘I know you’re not here to advise – a decision I find impossible to comprehend, by the way; but I want your opinion on how we should approach Corcyra. I know you were here before, and would appreciate your insight.’  
Brasidas smiled his thanks for the vote of confidence. ‘What are you planning?’  
‘The oligarchs have hired a mercenary army, collected on the mainland coast just north of here. We’re being urged to ferry them out to the island, and then join them in raiding the small settlements outside the city.’  
Brasidas raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Not a siege of the city itself, then?’  
He considered that. ‘They’re not saying it, but I believe they intend to lead us to that before the summer’s out.’  
Brasidas shook his head half to himself, looking out over the anchorage, noticing a small cutter coming along the coast from the south. He watched its progress without really seeing it. ‘How many mercenaries?’  
‘Fifteen hundred or so.’  
‘A reasonable force. They’ll need it. The akropolis is notoriously well defended.’ He saw that the cutter was approaching the jetty below as he said, ‘Do we have any information on the numbers of how many are armed within the city?’  
‘We have spies embedded there, but we’re still waiting for word.’  
Brasidas nodded, watching three men climb onto the jetty, and start up the hill towards the headquarters tent. ‘We should delay a day or two in hopes of getting that information. No harm can come from a short delay.’ Then he nodded downwards, and said, ‘Looks like news.’  
Thrasymelidas had been looking at Brasidas as he’d been speaking, so hadn’t noticed the small boat. He looked where Brasidas indicated. ‘A herald from Sparta.’  
‘Shall I go, sir?’ Brasidas asked.  
‘No,’ Thrasymelidas said with a smile. ‘A second set of ears is always helpful.’

The herald and his two escort guards were red faced by the time they had struggled up the slope to Thrasymelidas’ tent. The herald took a moment to catch his breath before gasping out, ‘Admiral,’ before nodding at Brasidas, ‘Sir. I come with an urgent summons from the kings. The fleet is to travel to Messenia with all speed – to Pylos, specifically.’  
They both stared at him; the Admiral asked curtly, ‘What’s going on?’  
‘An Athenian general by the name of Demosthenes – the same who lost an army in Thessaly last summer – has had the audacity to build a fortification on Pylos.’  
‘What?’ Brasidas snapped, more out of shock than anything.  
The herald nodded. ‘They’ve provided it with a garrison of Messenians, and many of the helots from the area have already defected to them.’  
Thrasymelidas said sternly, ‘The fleet will return at once. Have they any ships at Pylos?’  
‘Only five triremes are reported, Admiral; however, caution is urged, as Athens is sending a large fleet here; you are ordered to avoid any encounter with them en route.’  
‘Of course,’ Thrasymelidas said tersely. ‘That goes without saying! Brasidas, go and tell the herald to sound the preparation to depart, and if you find a messenger on the way, send him to me.’  
Brasidas nodded curtly and went to do what he had been ordered, his heart racing. If there was one thing that caused Spartans true fear, it was that the helots would rise up against them – and a fort in the lands traditionally owned by the Messenian helots, which held out amnesty to them, was a direct invitation to revolt.

The fleet had reached Pylos quickly, having successfully avoided the Athenian fleet they’d been warned about, and despite the terrible weather. They’d sailed into Pylos harbour unchallenged, Brasidas noticing that, as they passed the fortification, there were now only three triremes rather than the five that had been reported to them. He’d thought grimly that there could be no doubt that they had sent for reinforcements, which would be no more than a few days away.

The following morning, Brasidas had just finished up at a meeting with Agis and the other polemarches - from both the army and navy - where the final details of an attack which would go forward early the following morning had been hammered out. He was going to the anchorage to pass the word to the crew of his trireme.  
Around him, the primary Spartan camp was heaving with activity despite the continued rain. Men were cleaning armour, sharpening swords, training in small groups, or chatting together. Patrols came regularly in and out at the gates, passing through on their way to or from another of the small camps which had been constructed along the mainland coast in order to prevent the Athenians making a landing there. The primary camp itself was the largest that had even been built on Lakonian soil, as besides the sailors who had arrived with Brasidas, it also had to house a full unit of the army. The current unit in camp was on a weekly rotation with a second unit who were currently on duty out on Sphacteria - ‘the Island’, as everyone called it. The unit numbered in the hundreds – more than four hundred Equals and perioeki hoplites, plus a complement of helots in each. There was additional organised chaos that morning because preparations for the next rotation was underway. Men were gathering together and making their noisy way towards the docks below.  
Brasidas’ attention was drawn by a familiar voice. He shouted over the din, ‘Is that you I hear laughing like an ass, Praxidas?’  
The other man turned then, looking around with a grin; when he spotted Brasidas, he disentangled himself from the group he’d been talking and joking with, and came over. They clasped hands warmly.  
Brasidas asked, ‘Where have they got you posted?’  
Praxidas said in his gravelly voice, ‘Second in command to Epitidas on this rotation. Off to the island for the second, and hopefully, last time.’  
Brasidas nodded. ‘You’ll be happy to hear the attack is starting tomorrow morning, then.’ They’d turned together down towards the water, walking slowly.  
Praxidas almost smiled. ‘That is good news. We’re all sick of waiting around on that shithole island.’ Then he tipped his head to one side, and said, ‘I still can’t believe Alcidas fucked you over like that. Commander of a trireme…’ He shook his head.  
Brasidas smiled. ‘I serve Sparta however I can. I bear no grudge.’ He didn’t add, because I already exacted my revenge; but he thought it.  
They’d reached the muster area, where hundreds of soldiers were milling around. Praxidas turned to him then, and said, ‘Well – I hope Poseidon favours you tomorrow. We’re depending on your men to break those fuckers on the shore.’  
Brasidas was about to reply when he was interrupted by a shout from a man who was standing right beside them. This was the polemarch Epitidas, Brasidas noted, identifiable had he not known him in passing by the sheer size of his crest. In a booming voice, he shouted, ‘Form up, you bastards! I’ve never seen such a messy rabble! Form uuuup!’  
Brasidas gave Praxidas a sympathetic look, slapped him on the shoulder, then went away towards his ship, feeling tense and vaguely… disheartened. He was far from confident that the navy would be able to even reach the shore, never mind break the Athenians. He’d had a good look himself from the deck of a small cutter at dawn that morning; the shoreline where the fort walls were weakest was rocky and treacherous, but he’d conceded that there was nowhere else that they had the slightest chance of breaking into the fort without a full-blown siege.  
The real problem was that, if this Athenian general had a grain of sense, he would know that was where they’d attack, too.

In the morning, the fleet prepared for action. Two ships took up position in one of the harbour mouths, six in the other, all with prows outwards, warding against any entrance by Athenian reinforcements by sea. None had arrived yet, but they were expected at every moment.  
Meanwhile, in the harbour, a portion of the remaining ships – those that weren’t to be used to ferry the hoplites from the Island onto the promontory once the navy had forced a landing - formed up into groups of three. The location made it impossible for them to attack the shore in greater numbers, and so Thrasymelidas had decided that they should attack in small relays. Brasidas had told him frankly that he didn’t like that plan, but he’d been forced to acknowledge that there was no other possible way to approach the situation.  
He and the other trireme commanders had gathered unofficially around a campfire on the previous night to discuss various tactics that might be of use with only three ships in each group, in such confined conditions. They had decided that there was no other option than to get as close to the coast as possible and, after a volley of javelins, they should attempt to leap ashore. They’d all agreed to this idea; but in the flickering light, Brasidas had seen that they shared the same, unspoken misgivings. For one thing, it wasn’t possible to get that close to the shore without risking the ships on the rocks; for another, even if they were willing to risk the almost certain displeasure of the king and ephors by running their ships aground to achieve their objective, there was the greater risk inherent in the idea - once a ship was wrecked, the crew were sitting ducks to the Athenians with their archers and peltasts, without any means of tactical retreat.  
On his ship, part of the second group, his eyes feeling gritty with not having slept enough, Brasidas watched as the first group approached the promontory. He was sick of re-thinking what he was going to do; he’d spent half the night reiterating to himself the very good reasons for his decision: if no one else was willing to do it, he would have to lead by example and run his own ship aground. He would risk everything for his country, just as he had been taught at the agoge, just as he was expected to do. The other half of the night he’d spent facing the fact that this could surely only end with his death – a glorious and honourable death in war, to be sure - just what he desired, what he had always desired.  
Had desired, he snarled at himself resentfully, as the first group slowed, getting very close to the coast. Now, against every Spartan part of himself, there was a persistent pain at the very thought of leaving the world in which Alexios lived and breathed, laughed and loved...  
He cursed his own weakness and gritted his teeth. He would do it, throw himself onto that shore, just to prove to himself that he wasn’t a coward. He was no good to anyone if he turned coward; he savagely silenced the voice that said he was no good to anyone if he was dead, either. The voice of weakness.  
Just as the sun peeped up over the hills of the Bay of Hades, the action began, blessedly taking Brasidas out of his own head. The Athenians could be seen rushing out onto the shore, though it was impossible to tell how many there were due to the distance; enough to have an immediate impact on the approaching ships though. They stopped in their progress, awkwardly stalling, still holding formation to begin with, though the ship at one end began to skew away at an angle, revealing its broadside to the shore.  
‘Turn, malaka,’ Brasidas muttered to himself; but was relieved when, a moment later, he saw that the helmsman had got it back under control. Shouts and screams carried across the water, and after what felt like an eternity, the first group began backing water, leaving the way open for Brasidas and the second group.  
As they passed, he saw that there were many dead on the deck, though those who were still alive cheered Brasidas’ group onwards. The commander in the nearest ship shouted out, ‘The General is on the shore. At least forty hoplites with him.’  
Brasidas called back his thanks as the oarsmen bent to their work, and the ships gained speed.  
Brasidas thought, now is the moment. He squared his shoulders and turned to his helmsman, a perioeki by the name of Isanor; he was a short, stalwart kind of man who had dedicated himself to the sea – he was a fisherman when he wasn’t serving in the navy. He looked at Brasidas expectantly, and after a moment, Brasidas said, ‘Aim directly for the shore.’  
Isanor narrowed his eyes. ’That would be reckless, if I might be forgiven for pointing it out.’  
Brasidas, much more sternly than was his wont, said, ‘We’re here to gain the shore, not do some sightseeing.’  
‘Alright,’ he said, a gleam in his eye. ‘For Sparta.’  
Brasidas barely heard him; he nodded, and then sprang over the railing of the bridge. He took his shield off his back, tested its weight on his arm, and then joined the men. He shouted out as he stalked down their ranks, ‘Men! I have given my orders; I will not spare the timber of this ship if it means tolerating Athenians on Lakonian soil! I will be no coward, afraid to risk my life for our country and neither will you!’ He paused, looking at all of them, before he shouted, ‘For Sparta!’  
They all beat their breastplates enthusiastically, and then turned to brace for impact as the shore rushed towards them.

The timbers struck rock, giving a hideous groan, and the ship came to a shuddering halt, and then with a great shout, the gangway was thrown down from the side of the ship into the shallow water below – but the Athenians were ready for them, and in much greater numbers than Brasidas had anticipated. Some of the Spartan soldiers leapt ashore, but from the corner of his eye, he saw the Athenians swarm them and they went down; but he knew he could do nothing for them, as he turned to the business before him.  
The Athenians had surged into the knee-high water, and begun climbing the gangway. Some made it halfway up before meeting Brasidas as he attempted to descend, leading the way. The man who met him first was a meaty, thick necked brute; fortunately, he was slow, and Brasidas despatched him before he had a chance to strike with his heavy blade; he was followed into the water, already turning red with blood, by a number of light armed soldiers. They attacked one after another, slowly pushing Brasidas backwards. With difficulty he fought them off; but he began to flag. That was when two hoplites attacked him at once, and with their combined strength, they succeeded in throwing him off balance, and he stumbled backwards slightly.  
It was over in a moment:  
He felt the blade of the hoplite on the left enter his leg, just above the knee.  
He’d been cut by a sword more than once, so he knew it was bad. Although it felt like he’d been hit with a something blunt rather than a blade, and there was no pain, there was the familiar, weird sensation that his flesh had been invaded by something cold…  
He ignored it, but took a further step backwards. He might have been alright, but he slipped on blood… it took him a moment to realise it was his own blood, which was oozing down into his sandal…  
The hoplite on the right saw his chance, and slashed at Brasidas' thigh, and that was something else altogether. A wave of intense pain crashed through him, dizzying, almost nauseating.  
The world became dull, distant… everything whirled before his eyes…  
He was aware of falling, and vaguely expected to hit the water, but he never did. With an excruciating jerk, he hit something solid and stopped, a scream escaping him as the hot, intense pain increased.  
His vision swam, darkening…  
He felt the strength leeching out of himself... He could no longer hold his shield and he felt it slip from his grasp...  
His final thought was panic that he had dropped it… Then there was only darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> The weather was notoriously wintery well into the spring of this year as Thucydides tells us. The Athenian fleet was delayed en route to Pylos because of it.  
> The map when it comes to Pylos/Sphacteria is not great. This is how Thucydides described it: ‘The island called Sphacteria extends down the side of the harbour bay and lies close to it, making the harbour safe and the entrances narrow. The entrance by Pylos and the Athenian fort allows a passage of two ships abreast, and at the other end, the gap between island and mainland is less than one mile. The whole island, being uninhabited, was wooded and pathless, and about two and three-quarter miles long… the coast around Pylos, outside the bay and facing the open sea, offered no harbour.’ From later action, we know that triremes could and did circle around the island with no trouble, so we can assume that the water was also relatively deep in both entrances.  
> Brasidas was in charge of a trireme at the battle, he was wounded multiple times on the first day of fighting at Pylos, and lost his shield after falling unconscious into an outrigger. He isn’t mentioned again in the history until the following year – so we are free to imagine that the wounds were probably very serious.  
> The situation on the island went on for a long while afterwards (ie. for months); I won’t give further details here as I will mention some of it in the coming chapters. Thucydides is my go to on this part of the history.


	17. Recovery

425 BC  
Early Summer

Brasidas was brought from unconsciousness by a shaft of excruciating pain… hands were grasping him, pulling him upwards, back onto the deck… He was dimly aware of someone shouting, perhaps at him, but he couldn’t take in the words; he could only squeeze his eyes closed and grit his teeth against the pain until he thought his jaw must break; then the blessed darkness reclaimed him again.

It was night. Lamps burnt low. There was the soft patter of rain falling on the leather of the tent above. The cool, damp air was pressing against his face.  
He was alive. He could scarcely believe it.  
He moved slightly, experimentally, but stopped as he became aware of a burning, aching sensation in his legs… though it was unaccountably distant, as though they were inexplicably a long way away from him.  
Yes, he was definitely alive.  
The camp doctor, a man named Lamachus, appeared at his side. ‘Do you feel any pain?’  
Brasidas’ mouth was dry; he rasped, ‘Not much.’  
‘Good,’ the doctor said with a comforting smile.  
Brasidas frowned, chasing a thought through the fog in his mind, and finally caught up to it. He asked, ‘Where am I?’  
Lamachus said solemnly, ‘You’re still in Messenia, sir; one of the medical tents in the primary camp, to be precise. You were brought back three days ago. King Agis wanted to send you back to Sparta, but I wouldn’t allow it. A jolting cart ride would have done for you.’  
‘Three days…’ he said, frowning sleepily. He was having trouble keeping up with what the doctor was saying.  
He nodded. ‘I’ve been giving you the juice of the poppy. You’ve been badly wounded.’  
Brasidas said, ‘I remember.’ The recollection which rushed back to him had an intense clarity to it: the moment the two Athenian hoplites had pushed him back, making him stumble. He remembered the tearing, burning pain of the second strike, to his right thigh. He’d been hit often enough to know that the bastard’s sword must have been blunt - a clean slice, like the first cut, wouldn’t have hurt so much, or so immediately. ‘Both legs?’  
‘Yes, that’s where the worst damage is, though the left leg isn’t as serious. It’s the right leg which is – problematic.’  
He asked, vaguely aware he should be more worried than he felt, ‘How so?’  
‘The wound edge is ragged, and by the time you reached me, the swelling was already well advanced. The edges could not be re-joined so easily. I stitched both wounds, but you will have to remain prone for some time, with extremely limited movement.’  
Brasidas stared at him for a moment. ‘Some time?’  
‘Weeks; months perhaps.’  
The pain was increasing; he closed his eyes for a moment, but resolutely trying to ignore it, he said, ‘I can’t. The battle…’  
The doctor’s face closed. He said tightly, ‘You cannot walk, sir; much less fight.’  
A wave of panic emerged from the general fogginess of his feelings; in his agitation, he made a sudden movement, and almost gasped at the stab of pain that shafted up his right leg. Through gritted teeth, he said, ‘But I will be able to fight again one day, Lamachus?’  
The doctor reached for a beaker nearby, and held it for Brasidas to drink. As he did, he said soothingly, ‘If you do all the right things now, and let the wounds heal properly, then there’s a good chance, yes.’  
He raised his head to drink, then laid back. The potion worked quickly; reality slipped away again.

He was woken the following morning by raised voices – one that made his heart flutter with joy was demanding that he be allowed in. Brasidas turned his head, trying to see what was going on, but the opening of the tent was behind him, so he contented himself with listening with a smile playing on his lips.  
Lamachus was saying, ‘He’s sleeping, misthios, and sleep is his best friend right now.’  
‘Don’t make me cut your throat!’ Alexios said in his most menacing voice, though Brasidas could hear the worry in it. ‘I promise not to wake him, if you insist; but I will be seeing him now.’  
Lamachus was clearly not to be persuaded. He said, ‘You come here and threaten me? I’m only looking out for the welfare of these men, Brasidas included.’ Sternly, he added, ‘You can come back when the sun is at the meridian, and not before.’  
‘Malaka,’ Alexios exclaimed; there was a grunt and the sound of a body hitting the ground, and then the misthios stepped into the tent, looking around in the dim light. Brasidas, who had struggle to prop himself up on his elbows, met his gaze with a raised eyebrow and a slow shake of his head.  
‘Chaire, Alexios.’  
He saw the look of irritation immediately leave his face when Alexios spotted him; though the worry still lingered. He came to kneel down beside Brasidas, who had laid back down again. Alexios took his hand surreptitiously beneath the covers, no doubt noting that the wounded man to Brasidas’ left was looking at them curiously – and perhaps a little nervously.  
‘You didn’t kill Lamachus, did you?’  
He smiled softly, hardly hearing him. ‘No.’  
They were silent for a long moment, gazing at one another, eyes roving across face, calloused hand nestled in calloused hand. At last, his voice pitched low to avoid being overheard, Alexios said with a voice brimming with love, a mirror of what Brasidas felt swelling up in himself, he said, ‘I thought you were dead, you bastard.’  
Brasidas gripped Alexios’ hand tightly, and tried to say with his eyes all of the thousand things that he couldn’t say aloud which threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Hades wasn’t ready for me yet, it seems,’ he managed to say, fighting against the aching lump in his throat. He was horrified to find there were tears in his eyes. ‘The doctor tells me I’ll live to fight again.’  
Alexios closed his eyes, and dropped his head to his chest; he adjusted his hand in Brasidas’ to hold it more tightly, but otherwise, he remained, head bowed, for a long moment. Brasidas wished he could pull him down beside him, hold him in his arms, give him comfort, the reassurance that he was really going to live; but all he could do was murmur, ‘Everything is going to be alright, Alexios.’  
He looked up then, and Brasidas realised he had been crying quietly; but the look on his face was one of pure anger; the kind that naturally comes after worry, when all danger has passed. He demanded in a low voice, ‘Why did you do it?’  
Brasidas had expected the question sooner or later; he sighed. ‘It was my duty.’  
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Alexios said intensely. ‘I’ve spoken to Agis. You were foolishly reckless.’  
Brasidas said calmly, ‘What others expect us to do, and what a man must do to answer his own conscience, are two different things. Sometimes the situation calls for recklessness, as you know.’  
Alexios shook his head at this in denial. Brasidas could have smiled had the situation been other than it was; for Alexios to deny that he was reckless himself bordered on the ridiculous.  
Alexios said, ‘That’s just another way of saying you wanted to die on that damn beach!’  
Brasidas gripped his hand, calling Alexios back from rage. ‘I didn’t want to die, but I was ready to.’ He paused for a moment before continuing in a whisper, ‘There was only one thing in this world I did not want to lose; and I could not let that stop me from doing what I knew I must. I would only have proven that this is weakness. It cannot be. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? This cannot be a source of weakness, or it is good for no one. I will be good to no one.’  
Alexios looked at the floor beside the pallet for a moment. When he looked back at Brasidas, he seemed to be a little calmer. ‘I understand.’  
Brasidas gave his hand another squeeze, feeling a different anxiety returning to him. He’d woken during the night, clear headed. It had occurred to him that if three days had passed as the doctor said, he had no idea what had been happening.  
‘Please – tell me what happened at Pylos. Were we victorious?’  
Alexios slowly shook his head, his face full of pity. ‘Nothing is decided yet, but… it’s not looking good for Sparta.’  
Brasidas stared at him for a moment. ‘No one made it onto the beach?’  
‘Not for more than a few moments. Two days, they kept trying, then yesterday, the Athenian fleet arrived.’  
Brasidas said, ‘But the navy had the harbour blocked at both mouths, as planned?’  
Alexios shook his head very slowly. Reluctantly, he said, ‘The Athenians made it into the harbour unopposed in the early morning; they took many ships still empty, or abandoned by their crews. Others they destroyed.’  
Brasidas was caught somewhere between disbelief and rage. What the fuck had happened? How had Thrasymelidas allowed such a thing to happen? They’d known the Athenian fleet was coming – they had a plan in place, had had a plan for days now. How the fuck had the whole damn navy been caught unawares?  
Alexios was still speaking, and had begun rubbing Brasidas’ wrist gently with his thumb, the only thing he could do by way of comforting him. ‘I’m sorry Brasidas. The Athenians have total control of the Bay of Hades, and have set up a trophy...’  
There was something in the way he said that last detail that pricked up Brasidas’ ears despite the tumult of his anger. He looked at Alexios sharply. ‘My shield!’ Alexios nodded, and Brasidas cursed. ‘What about the Island? The men on the Island? They got them back to the mainland?’  
Alexios shook his head again. ‘No – the last rotation is stranded there. The Athenians have two triremes circling around the Island constantly. There’s no way to get to them save via the open sea at night when the wind is high. Helots have been offered freedom if they succeed in getting food to the men there; they are at least well provisioned.’  
Brasidas closed his eyes, wishing he hadn’t asked about any of it. His head ached with anger, his body almost vibrating with tension, and, he was suddenly aware, his legs had begun paining him again. He said, ‘You’d better wake the doctor, Alexios.’  
Alexios looked concerned. ‘Are you in pain?’  
He met Alexios’ eyes and saw concern there, and love. He tried to smile, to reassure him that everything was alright, but he felt it waver on his face. ‘Not too badly…’  
Alexios gave his hand a parting squeeze, then went to wake up the soon-to-be very irate doctor.

Mid- Summer

Alexios visited Brasidas as often as he dared in the days that followed. At first, Brasidas remained in the medical tent; but when Alexios had made it clear to Lamachus that he would come and go as he liked, at whatever hour suited him, the doctor had complained to his superior – and somehow, that complaint had reached Agis. Lamachus had expected that Alexios would be ejected from the camp; but he was irritated when instead, Agis had Brasidas moved to a tent beside his own which was empty. That meant, as Lamachus had openly grumbled to Brasidas, he had to travel across the camp just for Brasidas’ benefit, leaving his patients alone. Brasidas had been sympathetic, for all the good it had done him.  
A week after he’d first visited Brasidas in camp, Alexios came to him in the afternoon, meeting Agis just as the king was leaving with a guard of four young soldiers. They nodded respectfully to each other, and Alexios entered, taking the seat Agis had just vacated beside the bed.  
Brasidas was, by that time, able to sit up, and the pain had receded with the swelling around both of his main wounds. It would still be many weeks before he could walk or train again - any exertion would risk reopening the wounds – and he was already growing irritable at being confined to bed.  
Alexios waited a moment to ensure the king and his guard were gone before kneeling beside the low bed and tenderly taking Brasidas’ face between his hands and kissed him tenderly. Brasidas felt the familiar rush of love course through his veins, his body thrumming with Alexios’ warmth and nearness. He was always amazed at the intensity of the feeling – the way his whole body responded, filled with a tingling buzz.  
Alexios broke the kiss reluctantly, and sat back. ‘I wish…’ He left it hanging, the hunger in his eyes filling the blank. He took Brasidas’ hand, turned it over to reveal the sensitive skin of his wrist, and kissed it lingeringly.  
Brasidas murmured, his own desire making his voice sound burry, ‘One day. It’s best not to risk it.’  
Alexios sighed and visibly sought to reign in his feelings – though he kept possession of the hand, stroking it gently or tracing the lines of the scars there which were now as familiar to him as his own. He asked, ‘What did our king have to say?’  
‘He was complaining about the high-handedness of the ephors. Ever since they arrived, they’ve acted as if this is all Agis’ fault.’  
‘Did he tell you how it went with the Athenians?’  
Brasidas raised his eyebrows. ‘No – I thought they were meeting tomorrow?’  
Alexios said, ‘No, it was today.’ He added reluctantly, ‘He probably didn’t want to upset you; you’re not going to like it.’  
Brasidas frowned, tensing. He’d sensed a reticence in Agis, but he hadn’t thought he would keep something so important from him. He said wryly, ‘I haven’t liked anything that’s happened in the last week – but tell me anyway, since he wouldn’t.’  
Alexios said, ‘They met and came to an agreement.’  
Brasidas narrowed his eyes a little. ‘What were the terms?’  
Alexios physically squared his shoulders, which made Brasidas worry. ‘They’ve agreed to a cessation of hostilities while Spartan ambassadors go to Athens seeking a peace settlement. The Athenians will escort them on one of their triremes – they leave tomorrow. Meanwhile, Sparta is permitted to supply a certain amount of food to the captives on the Island without trouble from Athens on the understanding that no attack by land or sea will occur until the return of the ambassadors.’  
‘Of course,’ Brasidas said, ‘The usual terms.’ He caught a dark expression on Alexios’ face. ‘And?’  
‘Sparta has agreed to deliver all of her ships to Athens until a treaty is agreed. They’ll be returned if the terms of the truce aren’t broken prior to that treaty being signed.’  
Brasidas stared at him for a long moment, his mind whirring. Sparta had given up all of her ships! ‘Madness!’ he said angrily, shocked and appalled. ‘These are not the terms of a truce, but the behaviour of a conqueror over the conquered! As if those devious bastards will return the ships to us! Even if there is no breach of terms, they will find some reason to keep them. What were they thinking!’ For a moment more he raged, Alexios listening sympathetically, letting him run.  
After a time, though, his political brain re-asserted itself, and he said bitterly, ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised. At least two of the ephors have sons on that Island, and even more cousins and uncles. They will do whatever it takes to get them back; but by Zeus, I think it a shameful concession – and it will end in disaster for the Spartan navy.’  
Alexios dropped his head and kissed his wrist again. ‘There’s still a chance peace will be reached, and that Athens will honour the truce. I know Demosthenes; he’s a reasonable man, for the most part.’  
Brasidas looked at him sharply. ‘How do you know him?’  
Alexios said calmly, though watchfully, ‘We met sometimes in Athens when I was seeking Mater.’  
They looked at one another; Brasidas considered this information. He could see that Alexios anticipated more questions, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask them.  
He wondered what their relationship had been: not in a jealous way, though he did wonder about that, too, but it was the more pressing question of whether Alexios had taken any work from him that struck him first. He’d known that Alexios had been in Athens for a length of time; had had an Athenian lover when they’d met; but still. Any connection with an Athenian general who’d proven capable of bringing Sparta to this impasse was something else again.  
At last, he said, ‘Is it a connection that might be used to Sparta’s advantage?’  
Alexios shook his head slowly, still watchful. ‘No. We weren’t that close.’  
Brasidas sighed. There was no point looking backwards, anyway, at Alexios’ past. Brasidas knew that he was loyal to Sparta now, and that’s what mattered. He said, with implied dismissal of the subject, ‘You’d better not mention it to anyone else then.’  
Alexios smiled. ‘I wasn’t planning to.’

Late summer

Brasidas was at last allowed by the doctor to get out of his bed as the summer stretched out towards winter. The ambassadors had yet to return from Athens. Rumours came that they had been kept waiting in a shameful manner – the natural arrogance of the Athenians when they got the upper hand, Brasidas had grumbled to Alexios.  
At Pylos, the truce still held, though it was clear that, besides the upper ranks, the Spartan forces were resentful of the enforced cease to hostilities. Many muttered that, had the ephors not made such a shameful truce, the Spartan forces would have broken the Athenians by now. Whether this was true or not they would never know – their concern now could only be that the treaty was agreed in Athens, and that they got their ships back.  
Brasidas walked extremely tentatively out of the tent towards a seat that Lamachus had set out for him earlier in the day to encourage him to try his legs. He’d hesitated about taking those first steps, afraid to bend his legs just in case. He’d made it only two steps beyond the opening when he heard Alexios laughing at him as he came up the hill to visit him.  
He glanced up with a grin, and said, ‘Don’t laugh at me, you malaka.’  
Alexios continued to grin, but came and took one of his arms, helping him into the seat.  
Brasidas smiled happily and thanked him, and then looked down at the ships at anchor below. He sobered to see the Athenians triremes circling the Island, and shook his head to himself.  
Alexios said almost shyly, ‘I have something for you.’  
Brasidas looked at him in surprise. ‘What is it?’  
Alexios ducked behind the tent, and emerged with a shield in his hands. For a moment, Brasidas just stared at it, then he looked up at Alexios’ face. He had a lump in his throat, but he squeezed out, ‘My shield!’  
Alexios handed it to him. ‘I recovered it for you.’  
Brasidas held the shield on his lap, running a hand across the dents and scrapes that were all intimately tied to events in his life. A new scrape ran down the centre, bisecting the lambada. He put it on his arm, and tested its weight, which after weeks of inactivity, was much greater than he remembered. He was grinning like a fool, but he didn’t care. He could have cried with gratitude.  
After a moment, though, he remembered himself, and placing it down, propped against his seat, he said, trying to sound stern, ‘You shouldn’t have touched that trophy, you know that.’  
Alexios grinned. ‘I can take it back, if you like?’ He chuckled when Brasidas, despite himself, put out a possessive hand to the curve of it. Alexios continued, ‘Anyway. I replaced it with another shield; the Athenians will never know.’  
Brasidas looked up at him and said gruffly, ‘Thank you.’  
Alexios would have replied, but Agis was seen coming towards them with his bodyguard, and with a parting squeeze of Brasidas’ shoulder, he slipped away.

Agis was angry – angrier than Brasidas had ever seen him; but it was a contained rage, the kind that was more intense because it wasn’t shouting and hitting things. ‘I’ve just received word from my contacts in Athens that the ambassadors have left Athens without an agreement. Those bastards made demands that would make Athena herself blush.’  
Brasidas said, mind running ahead to what this would mean. ‘Then it will be war again?’  
‘It will – and without a navy.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘But we haven’t broken the truce!’  
Agis said bitterly, ‘It’s spoken openly of in Athens, that they intend to keep our ships, regardless. Oath-breaking sons of whores!’  
Brasidas was angry even though he wasn’t surprised, having assumed that the Athenians would find a way to keep the ships one way or another. He knew that Agis had been at the meeting with Demosthenes, but the king had implied many times that the ephors had overruled his own resistance to giving up the ships. He would make the ephors feel it, that much was certain. The best he could do for Agis now was to redirect that rage into something constructive – like getting a plan he’d been brooding over in the long weeks of idleness into the king’s head. He said, ‘I’ve been thinking about the course of the war.’  
Agis looked at him with interest; he was a man who could let go of anger easily, or rather store it away for future use. ‘What are you thinking?’  
Brasidas said, ‘I think we need to draw their attention away from the south – away from the Peloponnese. Perhaps… Thrace?’ He stretched, feeling the sun against his face.  
Agis smiled. Though he made no response to the suggestion itself, Brasidas knew he had planted a seed that would bear fruit; instead, Agis said, ‘I’m pleased to see you thinking about the future again.’  
Brasidas smiled. ‘I never stopped,’ he said, ‘I just wasn’t sure that I’d be alive to see it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> According to Thucydides, Brasidas’ shield washed up on the shore and was included in the trophy set up by the Athenians to mark the Battle of Pylos. I am curious how they knew it was his, but that’s not made clear… so, why shouldn’t ‘someone’ have retrieved it for him, replacing it with one just like it? I haven’t read it anywhere, but I have a feeling it would have been a religious offence to tamper with a trophy, as they were naturally dedicated to the gods – not that that would have bothered Alexios :)  
> All of the details of how the aftermath with the ambassadors and Athens’ double dealing etc, etc… come from Thucydides with some supplementation from Plutarch.  
> It’s funny – it had never occurred to me until writing this that Brasidas’ becoming an army general in the following year (spoilers, lol) and all that followed thereafter, was a direct result of Pylos and Athens’ having confiscated Sparta’s navy – but I like the kind of cosmic justice of it; it turned out that Brasidas was much more dangerous to Athens on land than he had ever been on water.


	18. The Island

425 BC  
Late Summer

Brasidas slowly made his way across to the headquarters tent to speak with Agis in the early afternoon of late summer. He was still walking carefully, though every day that passed he felt more confident on his feet. It was intensely hot, the heat beating down from above, and reflected up again from the stony and dusty ground. Everything was dry; the grass beneath his feet was crisp, the air hot against his face. He tried to ignore the discomfort as always; but high summer was always challenging, even when you weren’t encamped on a mountainside without cover in Messenia.  
Agis was standing outside the tent, hand up against the glare of the sun, squinting towards the Island.  
‘Do you see smoke?’ he asked, pointing to the end of the island which was furthest from the Athenian fort.  
Brasidas came to stand beside him and looked where he indicated. An Athenian pentercoster was anchored near that end of the island, a curl of black smoke rising up nearby. ‘That’ll be the crew having lunch,’ he said, but frowned, ‘Though, there’s a lot of smoke for a cooking fire...’  
As they watched, the smoke increased at an alarming rate; then they saw the flames.  
Agis said in alarm, ‘By Zeus! The Island’s on fire!’  
Brasidas frowned at the pentercoster, which was just then dropping sail, the Athenians fleeing the flames. He said darkly, ‘Cowards! Not men enough to face our soldiers face to face, they’re trying to burn them out!’  
Around them, and down on the shore below, soldiers could be seen gathering to look out at the island, talking anxiously to each other about their friends and family out there. It was horrifying to watch, but no one could look away – the flames increased in height and intensity, leaping from the tops of the trees, one to the next.  
‘May the gods preserve them,’ Agis said, though his voice echoing the feelings of everyone watching: more fearful than hopeful.

By nightfall, the most significant flames had died down, though in the evening darkness, the glow of areas that were still burning gleamed out across the bay.  
Brasidas, like many others in the camp had been unable to turn his mind to anything else; he’d spent the day watching the Island, hoping to catch sight of some sign of life out there. He’d just stood, turning to go to his bed, when Alexios appeared.  
‘Chaire, Brasidas,’ he said, looking grim but also worried. ‘You wanted to see me?’  
Brasidas had sent a messenger to find him earlier in the afternoon at Agis’ prompting. ‘Yes,’ he said trying to smile reassuringly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘There’s nothing to worry about – well,’ he gestured over his shoulder towards the Island, ‘except what’s going on out there. I wanted to ask you to do something for me – and Agis.’  
Alexios relaxed a little, though he tilted his head. ‘You want me to go out to the island?’  
Brasidas nodded once. ‘We need to know if our men are alright.’ He paused for a moment before adding, ‘You must remain unseen, or we’ll be in breach of the truce,’ though he couldn’t help adding bitterly, ‘Not that the truce is worth the breath used to make it anymore.’  
Alexios rested a hand on Brasidas’ shoulder, the warmth of the touch bringing him back to himself. He gave a tiny sigh, and for a brief moment, he placed his own hand on Alexios’ and squeezed it.  
Alexios said confidently, ‘Consider it done.’  
Brasidas smiled. ‘Thank you. Wake me when you get back.’  
He watched the misthios disappear once more into the darkness, not for the first time wondering how he had ever coped without the comfort that Alexios brought him. He couldn’t even imagine his life without it anymore.

In the early hours of the morning, Brasidas woke, aware that Alexios was there. He turned his head, and in the golden light of a pair of small lamps, he saw that the misthios was asleep sitting up, his eyes closed, a look of total serenity on his face. For a long moment, he gazed with aching longing at him; his eyes caressing the perfect jawline, the sweep of his neck down to those wide shoulders, the perfectly sculpted arms…  
‘Don’t tempt me,’ Alexios said, not opening his eyes. ‘It’s hard enough to restrain myself, without you looking at me like that.’ He opened one eye then, looking at Brasidas sideways.  
Brasidas grinned; but when he sat up, he grew serious. ‘News?’  
Alexios said, ‘They’re safe. No one was lost. Most of the men are camped on the akropolis of the island, where the springs are. They saw the fire coming, and fled into the sea.’  
Brasidas sighed with relief. ‘Excellent.’ He flung off the light covering he was sleeping in – something he had started doing in camp, even during the height of summer, ever since the hideous incident with Diphridas – and stood.  
He actually heard Alexios gulp. He glanced at the misthios over his shoulder, eyes gleaming mischievously as he picked up his tunic as slowly as he could.  
Alexios was biting his lip, watching him with the same heat that Brasidas felt burning in his own belly; when he saw the look though, he grinned.  
‘You malaka!’  
Brasidas pulled the tunic on, and with a parting wink, he went to tell Agis the good news.

Only days after the fire had torn across the island, Athenian ships were sighted coming into the harbour from the north. Brasidas, Agis, the two ephors who went on campaign with the king, Thrasymelidas and a handful of polemarches gathered in the headquarters tent to discuss what this might mean and what action they should take, if any. They were still there when a scout came to report that the Athenians had brought more hoplites and a great number of light armed troops on those ships; at best guess, they now had a thousand soldiers to hand – on the ships anchoring at sea, and in the fort itself.  
Brasidas said, ‘They can only be intending to launch an offensive against the Island.’  
It was at that moment that an Athenian herald was shown into the tent. He was a young man in blue, who looked very nervous, and no one tried to make him less so. He cleared his throat, and began, ‘Greetings from Generals Cleon and Demosthenes…’  
‘You have two generals now?’ Agis interrupted tersely.  
‘Yes,’ the herald said, flustered by the interruption. ‘General Cleon arrived this morning from Athens with…’  
‘Proceed,’ Agis said.  
The herald looked at him in confusion. ‘Sorry?’  
‘Proceed with the message from the generals.’  
‘Oh – of course.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Greetings from Generals Cleon and Demosthenes. They wish to invite you to send a herald to the Island where, it is suggested, you should advise your men to surrender their arms...’  
There was bark of laughter from the gathered Spartans. ‘A kind invitation!’ Agis said with a shake of his head.  
The herald pushed on. ‘If they surrender their arms and themselves now, they will be received without prejudice…’  
Brasidas shared a glance with Agis; as they had suspected, it was now clear that things were about to become very serious.  
The herald was saying, ‘On the understanding, of course, that they will be kept in reasonable conditions, until Athens and Sparta come to an agreement on the larger issue.’  
The words hung in the air for a long moment; then Agis turned slowly, looking at each man in the tent in turn, asking their opinion with the look. Each shook his head ever so slightly.  
He turned to the herald. He was silent for a further moment, making the young man squirm with discomfort; then he said tersely, ‘Sparta rejects this invitation, out of hand. You may take your generals our own invitation: Sparta invites the Athenians to take themselves from their illegal occupation of our lands, and go to Hades.’  
The herald blanched, but managed to bow before scuttling away down the hill, back to his boat.  
The men in the tent were silent for a moment, before Agis said to the whole group, ‘Go now. Ensure the camps along the coast are on full alert; tomorrow morning we’ll attack the fort again – we will need to keep their attention off the Island as much as possible.’  
There was a rumble of acknowledgment and they went, but Agis asked Brasidas to remain for a moment longer.  
He waited while Agis adjusted his armour, muttering apologetically about chaffing. When he was done, he looked up at Brasidas and said, ‘This mercenary friend of yours – Alexios. We know he can reach the Island unseen, and his fighting is…’ He waved a hand to fill the blank. ‘Do you think you could persuade him to fight with our men on the island? They’ll need all the help they can get.’  
Brasidas considered that. He slowly nodded, ‘Yes, I would think so.’  
‘Good,’ he said with a curt nod. ‘Then send for him. Have him get there tonight, if you can.’  
Brasidas promised he would and was dismissed.

‘Of course,’ Alexios said, his eyes gleaming when Brasidas put the king’s request to him. ‘I haven’t been in a real battle since Boeotia.’ They were sitting side by side on the edge of Brasidas’ bed, their shoulders touching, as Alexios re-secured one of his greaves.  
Brasidas felt a shadow of misgiving. ‘You’ll be outnumbered near three to one.’  
With supreme confidence, Alexios said, ‘I’ve faced worse odds.’ He looked up from the greave with a grin, and only then noticed the crease of worry between Brasidas’ brows. He said more gently, ‘I promise I’ll be careful.’ He kissed Brasidas once, softly, lingeringly, then stood. ‘I’ll see you in a few days.’  
Brasidas nodded. In the firmest voice he could muster, he said, ‘I’ll be waiting.’  
Alexios just smiled, and then stepped out into the night.

Brasidas was woken before dawn the next morning by shouting. It wasn’t uncommon in the camp, but this shouting had a different quality to it. In alarm, he sprang to his feet, forgetting himself for a moment, but was swiftly reminded by his left knee, which was still tender. He cursed at it, but didn’t stop in his rush to pull on his tunic and go outside to see what was happening.  
There was the beginning of dawn above the mountains, just enough light to make out the dim shapes of the ships in the harbour – Athenian ships, anchored at the island…  
He frowned, and limped towards the headquarters building. ‘Agis – what’s going on?’ he called before he even reached the king, who was standing looking out at the island in the spot Brasidas felt they’d lived for the past weeks.  
‘They started the attack in the dark. The watch down at the coast heard shouting coming across the water, and then they saw the ships.’  
Brasidas said through gritted teeth, ‘Their dishonour knows no bounds.’  
‘No,’ Agis said coldly with a curled lip. ‘Fucking Athenians,’ he added, and spat as though the word tasted bad.  
Brasidas, feeling frustrated at being unable to do anything, and worried about Alexios and his friends amongst the stranded Spartans, said, ‘I’m going down to the water. Perhaps I’ll be able to see more from there.’  
Agis rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, and then turned into the headquarters tent with two polemarches who had just arrived, leaving Brasidas to make his careful way down the hill.

It turned into another scorching hot day. By the afternoon, it felt as though Helios had truly come too close to the earth. The heat was like a hammer to the head.  
Athenian ships continued to disgorge soldiers onto the island until mid-morning; thereafter, there was really nothing to see from the mainland – the sounds of shouting could be heard on the wind sometimes, but that was all.  
Brasidas, uncomfortably tense, went from waterfront to headquarters and back again, always hoping to find out something new. At last, his leg absolutely demanded he stop; then he took up a restless position outside the headquarters tent. 

In the late afternoon the Athenian herald, who had previously invited the Spartans to disarm their men, was brought back on a small boat. As he stood before Agis and the ephors and the other men who had gathered to hear him, Brasidas could see that he was sweating freely, and he suspected not entirely from the heat.  
Agis said coldly, ‘What do you want now?’  
The young man’s voice shook. ‘Generals Cleon and Demosthenes wish you to know that the Spartan men have surrendered their arms and themselves. They request that you provide them with a herald so that they might communicate with you regarding the terms.’  
The men in the tent froze; a ripple of something indescribable passed through them – a wave of horror, of disbelief, of disgust.  
Agis’ face was totally rigid; when he spoke, his voice was one of cold fury. ‘A herald will be sent immediately. Go.’  
The Athenian herald didn’t have to be told twice.

The Spartan herald went to the island alone, and was soon hurrying back.  
Agis and Brasidas watched the boat crossing the water from the prominence, saying nothing. No one had spoken much since the Athenian herald had gone; no one had the words for what was certainly an unmitigated disaster. They all of them stood waiting at the headquarters tent, waiting to hear what had happened, waiting for the herald to bring them some form of hope – though they knew it was impossible.  
Agis demanded of the herald, even before he had reached them, ‘What happened?’  
‘I didn’t have time to get all the details,’ he said quickly, ‘but I have the outline. The enemy fell on the southern position first – a small detachment only - while it was still dark; they slaughtered the detachment, to a man. Then they marched towards the akropolis where the bulk of our men were encamped. The ships, as we saw, continued to deliver soldiers to both sides of the Island all morning. Our men marched out in battle array, but the Athenians surrounded them with archers and peltasts. Anytime they tried to come to grips with them, they ran away.’  
‘Fucking cowards!’ Thrasymelidas grated out, but Agis raised an impatient hand to silence him.  
The herald continued, ‘Until that moment, they said that our champion was rallying the troops around him, and fought like a fury.’ Brasidas felt his stomach lurch. ‘It looked as though he would swing the battle, but then the Athenian champion came forward to meet him; a female calling herself Deimos. She and the misthios had a fight that I was told was like the clash of two titans… though many saw them clash, no one saw the outcome – the ash from the fire had been kicked up in the fighting; one moment they were seen struggling; the next, they had both gone.’  
Brasidas sucked in a horrified breath, feeling as though he had been kicked in the chest; luckily everyone was too tense and focussed on the herald to pay any attention to him.  
‘Once he disappeared, the Spartans broke, and the Athenians were able to drive them back to the northern tip of the island. It had been decided that the ancient fortification there would be the best place for a last stand. Styphon was in charge by then – both Epitidas and Praxidas had been killed in the fighting – and he thought the place was safe because of the cliffs, so he had set no watches to the north; but some of the Messenians scaled the cliffs and attacked them from behind. That broke their morale. The Athenians saw it, and called a cease to hostilities, offering to take their surrender. They accepted it.’  
Agis was stony faced as he said, ‘And what do they wish to say to us?’  
‘They ask what they should do.’  
‘What they should do?’ Agis said incredulously, pacing a few short, angry steps before turning back to the herald. ‘You may tell them they should decide that for themselves; though remind them that they should do nothing that will bring dishonour upon Sparta.’  
The herald nodded, waiting for more; but it didn’t come. After a moment, he said, ‘That’s all, my king?’  
‘Yes,’ the king said, after glancing at the ephors, who nodded agreement.  
The herald bowed his head and then hurried away back to the jetty.  
Brasidas sat down heavily in the seat near the tent, his head reeling, feeling sick.  
Praxidas dead. His oldest friend, killed in a fight that was as shameful as it had been brutal; not even killed honourably in the phalanx, but stoned by a bunch of cowardly fucking peltasts… It was too much.  
And then… Alexios. He tried not to think about that; but a wave of nausea washed over him, as he looked up at the clear blue sky, doing everything he could to keep the grief that threatened to consume him beaten down: the lump in his throat, the tears that burnt behind his eyes... He would not unman himself like that – could not.  
A long moment passed. The men around the headquarters tent continued to talk at each other angrily, already blaming everyone they could think of, including each other. It washed over Brasidas, like the roar of the sea in the distance.  
Just as he thought he had got his feelings in check, Brasidas noticed Ikaros.  
At first, the eagle was a small black spot in the sky which he’d been watching without realising he was doing it; but as he circled lower, Brasidas stood up, looking upwards in such a marked fashion that the other men fell silent, looking at him as though he had lost his mind; but they gasped as the magnificent bird settled on the pinnacle of the headquarters tent.  
Ikaros looked down at them all haughtily, before settling a pointed look on Brasidas. He felt his face prickle with heat as he realised that it wasn’t only the eagle whose eyes were fixed on him.  
Agis frowned. ‘Brasidas... is that eagle… talking to you?’  
Brasidas glanced at Agis, then back at Ikaros. The eagle ruffled his feathers, peeped twice; and then took off with several powerful beats of his wings. Once he had gained enough height, he flew away towards the north east.  
He couldn’t explain how he knew, but Ikaros had been talking to him, in a way. He’d conveyed that Alexios was alive, and had been taken to the north east – Athens, no doubt.  
Brasidas couldn’t tell the king that though, of course. He said curtly, ‘Of course not. Please - Excuse me.’ He didn’t wait for permission from the king, who said, ‘Of course,’ even as he was already walking away. The mix of intense relief and grief was too much to hold in, and as he reached his tent, he was ashamed to find that his cheeks were wet with tears - whether happy or sad, he couldn't say exactly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> The timeline of the battles of Pylos and Sphacteria and all that went on in between the two is about as clear as mud, but I have almost certainly made it longer than it was. Thucydides specifically says that it lasted 72 days, including 20 days it took for the heralds/ambassadors to go to Athens and come back; but if this is true, his references to the terrible weather at the end of spring on into the beginning of summer in conjunction with the fleet coming from Corcyra, and then the fears of approaching winter that he tells us drove the Athenians to send more ships with Cleon, really muddy those waters, making it sound like an all year business. I’ve chosen something in between purely to suit my narrative.  
> The fire was supposedly ‘inadvertently’ lit by the Athenians having their lunch; I don’t know whether I really believe that – or whether the Spartans would have at the time. Thucydides gives a comprehensive list of reasons why Demosthenes had held off the attack – and they all of them concerned the trees and what they might hide. It was (if we buy Thucydides’ take) a happy coincidence for the Athenians, anyway.  
> The second in command to Epitidas wasn’t Praxidas, but actually a man named Hippagretas. Epitidas was killed early on, while Hippagretas was believed dead, but was discovered alive amongst the wounded after the surrender.  
> All details come from the usual suspect :)


	19. Winter into Spring

425-424BC  
Winter

That winter was a bitter one in Sparta.  
Morale was at rock bottom. The loss of the whole unit at Sphacteria hit the city hard; but the fact that 120 Equals had surrendered and had been unceremoniously shipped off to Athens alive was an almost unbearable shame. Virtually no Spartiate family was untouched by the disaster. No one could talk of anything else; and Brasidas and Tellis had agreed that there could be only one outcome: of course, Sparta must get them back; but when they did, they would be relegated to the lowliest of stations – that of cowards, no longer considered true Spartiates, shunned by all.  
A list of the men imprisoned in Athens had been sent to the ephors. Brasidas had had mixed emotions when he saw that Praxidas’ name was on the list, and that he wasn’t dead after all. He was glad he was alive, of course he was; but in some ways, it would have been better if he was dead and could have avoided the shame. Even more worrying, Alexios’ name wasn’t on it. He wondered if the misthios had escaped, or if he hadn’t been included because the Athenians still thought of him as just another mercenary. Not knowing was a torment; but at the same time, it left room for hope that he would show up in Sparta at any time.  
Brasidas found himself trying to spot the misthios in crowds, then chiding himself for it…. but as the months passed, and there was no sign, no word of him, that hope faded into a bleak certainty that he was never coming back.  
Brasidas’ legs had heeled successfully, and he trained harder than he ever had before. He explained this sudden obsession with the gym and dromos to everyone as an effort to regain his fitness, which was at least partly true. If he’d been honest with himself though, besides using the exercise to disguise the emotional wreck he was on the inside, he was also avoiding being with his wife for any but the briefest of visits. Stamatia said almost nothing to him during his duty calls, and he said very little to her. He was brooding, she was watchful. They were like two caged animals staring at one another from opposite sides of their enclosure.  
As the winter passed, he spent less and less time with her; less and less time with anyone.   
He longed for spring. He longed to leave Sparta.

Brasidas had suggested the expedition to the Thraceward region - including Malis, Trachis and Makedonia – to Agis in the hopes that, by causing trouble in the north, the Athenian’s attention would be dragged away from the Peloponnese. He hadn’t expected word of his suggestion to reach the King of Makedonia, Perdiccas; nor that the king would be as enthusiastic as he was for the Spartan expedition. He wasn’t, so far as anyone in Sparta had known, an open enemy of Athens though there was a history of tension between them; but his herald had made it clear that he was willing for that to change. Many of his neighbours were already in open revolt against the empire, and it was believed that even those cities and towns which had not yet risen up would be swayed if Sparta sent an army.   
When Brasidas was voted polemarch in charge of that expedition, no one was surprised but himself.  
As soon as he possibly could, he made good his escape and went to Korinth to raise an army.

Late Spring

Late one night, Brasidas came out of Akrokorinth Fort, walking slowly towards the Temple of Aphrodite, just wanting to get a little space between himself and the men who were amassing there in preparation for the campaign to come. He had been in the city for weeks and had hardly had time to sleep a full night’s sleep. His every waking moment was intensely busy. He was always training, sending out heralds to allies demanding troops; receiving heralds with rude replies or in the better cases, troops when they came marching into the fortress; and what felt like organising every detail of everything – or at least, organising who should handle every detail of everything, which was almost as bad.  
He walked up the steps, between the columns of the portico, and went inside. It was empty and pleasantly dim inside the temple, the small galaxy of lamps punctuating the darkness rather than dispelling it. He came to stand before the statue at the far end. He looked up at the sinuous goddess of love, who looked coyly back down at him, giving nothing away.   
He sighed, a sigh that came from the bottom of his soul. Brasidas found himself thinking only one word as he looked at the goddess: ‘Why?’  
He was sure he’d only thought the word, but a warm voice said, ‘Why not you?’  
It was a cataclysm. He entirely forgot himself, and was embracing Alexios before he was aware of even moving; inarticulate, incoherent words tumbling from both their lips; both their cheeks wet with tears; then he was holding the beloved face he’d been so sure he’d never see again between his hands, searching it before kissing his eyelids, his mouth, burying his face in his shoulder – it was a messy, teary greeting on both sides, a spectacle of pure joy.  
After the first intensity of their reunion had passed, Brasidas recalled where they were. He led Alexios out of the temple, down to the walls and one of the towers there. No one ever came down to this section of wall, and he knew it was probably the only place on the Akrokorinth where they could have any privacy.  
As soon as they were inside, the door pushed closed, they fell into one another with all the force of passionate longing, the joy of reunion and of long delayed desire.   
They were one; a single burning flame in the pitch-dark void.

Wrapped in each other, neither of them willing to release the other entirely, they laid for a long time afterwards just touching each other in the moonlight that came through the window; a kind of wonder-filled touching; lips lingering on tender, soft skin; tentative fingers tracing new scars, old scars; refamiliarizing themselves with the other.   
The perfect sweeps of skin, the swirls of dark, bristling hair.   
The wonder of it all.

At some time in the early morning, Brasidas asked quietly, ‘Where have you been all this time?’   
Alexios sighed. ‘Athens. I was imprisoned with the other men taken from the Island. I was broken out by friends in the city, and in repayment, I agreed to help them to destabilise Cleon’s hold over the people.’  
‘Successfully?’   
Alexios was caressing a new scar near Brasidas’ wrist. He kissed it gently before he said, ‘They think so. I never did understand Athenian politics.’ He met Brasidas’ gaze and said, ‘I heard you were here, gathering an army to march north. They made you polemarch, at last.’  
Brasidas said wryly, ‘They have no navy anymore – what choice did they have?’  
Alexios said with some compassion, ‘All that time wasted.’  
Brasidas smiled and closed his eyes, and after a moment, said with quiet confidence, ‘I’ll show them.’  
‘Who?’ Alexios asked, his attention having wandered with his hand, tracing downwards, watching Brasidas’ skin react to his touch. Brasidas moaned gently with pleasure, and opened his eyes, which gleamed with desire. He took Alexios’ wrist in his, and pulled him to him, skin to skin.   
He never did answer the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:   
> The business with Perdiccas and the planned expedition to the Thraceward region is all from the man: Thucydides.


	20. The Nisaea Incident

424 BC  
Summer

It was the time of day when late afternoon slips peacefully into early evening; the time when the fort had quieted down, the first watch of the night was in position, the evening meal was finished, and most of the soldiers – nearly three thousand of them – were at ease before turning in. Most were cleaning armour or doing some light training.  
Brasidas was finalising a few details with two hoplites concerning the grain supply when a young soldier, breathing heavily, with dried blood on his tunic and a desperate look about him, was ushered into Brasidas’ office.  
Brasidas asked him curtly, ‘What is it?’  
‘Sir – the Athenians have taken the long walls at Megara, and have trapped the Spartan garrison of Nisaea into the port.’  
Brasidas stood abruptly, knocking his seat backwards. ‘Has the city fallen?’  
‘It hadn’t when I left, sir; but there is a conspiracy afoot. Someone opened the gates to let those fuckers in, and who knows if they’ve swayed the people by now.’  
‘Athenian numbers?’  
‘Perhaps a thousand. More were arriving as I rode out.’  
Brasidas turned to one of the hoplites who were still standing by, eyes wide. ‘Fetch the herald. Have him sound the order. Prepare to march out. We’ll leave at once.’ To the next, he said, ‘Have a messenger sent to Boeotia and ask they send us reinforcements – as many as they can spare. They should meet us at Camp Tripodiskos, beneath Mount Geraneia.’ The two hoplites went immediately and Brasidas made to follow them, but he paused at the doorway, turning back for a moment to address the young soldier. ‘Do you think Commander Demaratus will have held Nisaea?’  
‘He’s no coward, sir. He’ll stand as long as he possibly can; but we weren’t prepared….’  
He said as comfortingly as he could, ‘We may yet get there in time.’  
He then strode out into the last of the daylight, towards the training space at the back of the fort.  
Alexios was sparring with a pair of young soldiers there, while a number of others looked on. For a long moment, Brasidas watched the misthios unseen. Alexios was careful with them, he saw, hitting them just hard enough when they failed in their defence to teach them a lesson, but never hard enough to do them real harm. He smiled inwardly. He’d never imagined the misthios as a teacher, but he was proving to be a patient, effective one, not least because the young men listened to every word he said with care and attention – much more attention than they ever spared for their usual trainer’s instructions.  
The peaceful scene was shattered by the herald sounding the order. There was a moment of pause, then the young men scattered, and Alexios watched them go with a frown, tucking his sword away. He saw Brasidas as he did so, and asked, ‘What’s happening?’  
Brasidas told him, and then said, ‘Will you come with us? We’ll need your help.’  
Alexios nodded curtly. ‘Where will you camp?’  
‘Tripodiskos, near Pagai.’  
Alexios said, ‘Then I’ll meet you there. I need to collect a few things from the ship first.’  
He nodded and rested a hand on Alexios’ arm, their eyes meeting as they shared a moment of warmth before rushing away in different directions – Brasidas to collect his armour, Alexios to the port.

Brasidas was in Camp Tripodiskos early the following morning shortly before dawn, when someone named Demodocus asked to see him. The man shown into the headquarters tent was small with an intensity about him that made Brasidas raise an eyebrow. He might have been anywhere from forty or sixty years old; and from his whole manner and bearing, it was clear he was one of the exiles from Megara, an oligarch driven out by the democratic party.  
Brasidas said firmly but politely, ‘What do you want? I haven’t much time. We march on Nisaea at sunrise.’  
Demodocus said, ‘It’s already fallen, polemarch – late yesterday afternoon. The Athenians encircled it with a palisade, forcing the people to come to terms. The Athenian General, a man called Demosthenes, has a persuasive tongue I’m told.’  
Brasidas restrained the curse that rose to his lips. Fucking Demosthenes. He asked coolly, ‘What were those terms?’  
‘They surrendered their arms, and each man had to pay a fixed ransom for his freedom.’  
‘And the Spartan garrison?’  
‘The Athenians were granted permission to do whatever they wanted with them. Demosthenes had them executed.’  
Brasidas took a deep breath. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, restraining his anger; then with perfect calm, he said, ‘Then Megaris must be out focus. I assume the city has not yet fallen?’  
Demodocus said, ‘No, it is still in the hands of the people. They are letting no one in or out.’  
Brasidas nodded, and then said to one of the guards who stood at the doorway, ‘Fetch Adimantos here, as quickly as you can.’ Adimantos was Brasidas’ second in command. The guard nodded and went.  
Brasidas turned back to Demodocus and said curtly, his mind on what he must do now to secure the city, ‘What is it that you wanted?’  
The oligarch looked affronted by his tone, but said, ‘To put to you the case for me and my fellow exiles...’  
Brasidas interrupted him. ‘You need not have bothered. Sparta’s policy has never changed. Once the city is secure against the Athenians, we will do our best to reinstate the oligarchic party in power. Be prepared.’  
Demodocus thanked him - sniffily, Brasidas noted – and then went away, passing Adimantos as he did.  
‘What is it, Polemarch?’ Adimantos asked. He was a tall, broad shouldered man with thick black hair, and a deep voice with a solemn manner to match. He was no Praxidas, but Brasidas liked him.  
‘Nisaea has fallen. We have to change our approach. I want you to pick a few hundred men and then form up at the gates. We’ll go as quickly as possible to Megaris, and try to get into the city before the Athenians know we’re here.’  
Adimantos nodded curtly, and went away to do as ordered.  
Brasidas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was conscious that he needed to gain a victory here, after the battering taken by the Spartans during the previous summer; but he was already on the back foot, arriving too late to save the garrison, and who knew if he would be able to convince the Megarians to let him into the city. Squaring his shoulders, he went to find Alexios.

The three hundred Spartans with Brasidas followed him towards Megara, keeping away from the roads as much as possible, not wishing anyone to alert the Athenians to their approach. When they were in sight of the city, Brasidas called a halt.  
The men on the walls had seen them, but fortunately there was no sign of an Athenian watch – they must be down at Nisaea, Brasidas thought with a shake of the head. Just as they had failed to keep an adequate watch on Methone all those years before, here they were again, leaving the city open to the Spartans.  
The city gate opened a little, and a huddle of men emerged before the gates closed once more. They advanced towards the Spartans nervously, and Brasidas stepped forward to meet them.  
‘Chaire, Menander,’ Brasidas said in a friendly way, recognising the leader of the people’s party. ‘We’re here to retake Nisaea. We ask entry to the city, that we might strike out from there.’  
The man shifted nervously from foot to foot. ‘No.’  
‘No?’  
‘We will admit no one – neither Spartan nor Athenian. Both parties are agreed.’  
Brasidas raised his eyebrows. ‘Really! Both sides agree for once!’  
Menander almost smiled; but he said curtly enough, ‘Yes.’  
Brasidas considered this for a moment. ‘I suppose you have your reasons.’  
‘There will be fighting in the streets no matter which side we favour…’  
Brasidas interrupted, ‘Until you know which side is strongest, I suppose.’  
Menander avoided his eye as he shrugged, and said, ‘As you say – we have our reasons.’  
Brasidas sighed. He could fill in the blanks pretty well: the democratic party didn’t want the exiles back and they must know that Sparta would insist; while the friends of the oligarchs must fear reprisals if they were seen supporting the Spartans. Neither side wanted a civil war in the streets when Athens was waiting just outside the gates to snap up what was left.  
He said with a confidence that he did not fully feel, ‘Then I will see you again when Athens has turned tail and fled.’  
Menander bowed his head, and retreated back to the city, while Brasidas ordered his hand-picked men back to Tripodiskos where they would wait for the Boeotians to arrive.  
As he passed Alexios, he gave him a nod. Alexios nodded back, before turning Phobos towards Nisaea.  
‘Where’s he going?’ Adimantos asked.  
Brasidas said with a hint of humour in his voice, ‘To soften the Athenians up before tomorrow.’  
A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s as extraordinary as they say, then?’  
Brasidas couldn’t help it. He smiled. ‘He is.’

The Boeotians arrived at dawn the following day, bringing with them enough men to effectively double the size of Brasidas’ army. Together, they marched out towards Megara, and beyond it, the port of Nisaea, where the Athenians now camped.  
They were met on the way by Alexios, who was waiting for them by the road.  
‘Successful?’ Brasidas asked.  
Alexios grinned. ‘Of course. They’ll be fighting on empty stomachs.’  
Brasidas slapped his shoulder, and they continued on together, walking easily side by side.

There was an open plain beside the long walls which ran unbroken between the city and the port, and as the Spartans arrived in formation, their scouts reported that there were scattered light armed troops across the plain, while the bulk of the army was down near Nisaea and the sea.  
Brasidas said to one of his battle heralds, ‘Pass the order to send out the Boeotian cavalry to clear the field.’  
The herald dashed away, and a moment later, a contingent of horsemen was seen charging across the plain, sending the small groups of light armed troops scattering. The Spartans let out a cheer.  
‘They weren’t expecting us,’ Adimantos said. ‘Typical.’  
‘Complacent as always,’ Brasidas affirmed. ‘But they’ll fight back.’  
After a short time, the enemy cavalry was seen taking the field, and battle was joined with the thundering of hooves, the screams of men and horses as they were struck, and the clash of weapons.

From his place with the infantry, it was hard for Brasidas to tell what was happening, even with scouts reporting regularly back to him. It seemed they had the upper hand, but there was no way of confirming if that was true.  
Around midday, more cavalry led by the Boeotian commander rode out in relief of those who had been fighting all morning; likewise, fresh troops were sent out from the Athenian side, and the battle continued on with fresh vigour.

The battle lasted all day, and ended in an unusual way. Neither side conceded the field to the other; instead, as the sun sank, both sides withdrew.  
As far as Brasidas was concerned, nothing decisive had been achieved; but as he prepared to return with the army to Camp Tripodiskos, an Athenian herald rode up to the Spartan lines and demanded to speak with their Commander.  
‘What do you want?’ Brasidas asked quietly.  
The herald had an arrogant air about him which got Brasidas’ back up. He would have liked to punch him in the face, had he been that kind of man. ‘General Demosthenes sends greetings, and offers a truce for you and your allies to collect their dead from the Athenian camp – including the commander of the defeated Boeotian cavalry.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘There was no defeat today… And what do you mean from the camp?’  
The herald sneered. ‘General Demosthenes offers a truce – take it or leave it.’  
Brasidas looked at Adimantos for a moment; then he turned back to the herald. ‘Your General intends to call this an Athenian victory on the strength of his having kept the bodies of the slain unless we agree to the truce, despite the fact that he doesn’t hold the field? That’s one way to win a battle if your soldiers can’t do it!’  
The herald repeated tersely, ‘Will you accept the truce?’  
Brasidas almost laughed at the sheer effrontery of it. He said, ‘Your General Demosthenes is a malaka.’ He shook his head, but he had to accept. ‘Fine – we accept your truce to retrieve the bodies of our men.’

Alexios had slipped off in the middle of the morning as the battle was wearing on, and he returned to the camp beneath Mount Geraneia after the army had returned. Brasidas was just attempting to undo the ties of his armour when the misthios slipped into his tent.  
‘Let me help you,’ Alexios said softly, not wanting the guards outside to hear that he was there.  
Brasidas sighed with relief. ‘Thank you,’ he said, equally quietly, and lifted his arms, allowing Alexios with quick, deft finger to loosen the ties down one side, then the other, before lifting it over his head. Alexios’ fingers brushing against his flesh in the process had his skin prickling with goosebumps. It had been too long, he thought with an ache in his sternum; but it was best not to think too much about that.  
When he was in only his tunic, they sat side by side on the camp bed, and Brasidas poured them a kylix of wine which he drank from before passing it to Alexios. As the misthios took a long swig, Brasidas asked, ‘What did you learn in the city?’  
Alexios set the empty vessel down as he said, ‘The people’s party is falling apart. All they’ll need is a show of strength from Sparta, and they’ll open the gates.’  
Brasidas raised his brows at that. ‘Hmm… Interesting.’ He considered his options for the next day, thoughtful hand up to his chin. Then he brought his mind back to the present moment, and met Alexios’ gaze, brimming over with warmth.  
‘What?’ he asked, smiling back, heart beating a little faster. One part of himself wondered how it was that Alexios’ nearness always did this to him, made him want to throw caution to the wind and… he sought for the words… to lose himself in the joy of it all… while the other, carefully rational and responsible part of himself, reminded him that patience in satisfying his appetite was both sensible and easier than what might happen if they were caught. He subconsciously straightened his back.  
Alexios noticed, understanding his thinking, and with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, he stood. He didn’t answer the question, only said, ‘I had better go. We both need sleep.’  
He reached out a hand, caressing Brasidas’ cheek and ran a thumb along his bottom lip. With a parting look that almost undid him, Alexios turned and left the tent as silently as he had arrived.

The following morning, Brasidas had the army form up on a hill in clear view of Megara, much closer than he had been the day before. There were more than six-thousand troops under his command, with the Boeotians included, all gleaming bronze and red crests, punctuated by the dark blue of their shields.  
Brasidas felt something inside himself fall into place. This – this was where he belonged. He’d always known it; but like a good Spartan, he’d accepted the role that the state had given him and discharged it as well as he could; but now, he was where he was supposed to be.  
There was something else too. He felt the familiar tap on the shoulder of Ambition, but there was something new in the way she was dressed – she was more sober now, darker somehow, less flashy. She longed not for glory, at least not in the way she had before: not glory at any cost. Instead, she was nudging him in another direction… He had yet to formulate to himself what direction that was exactly, but he worried at it in idle moments, seeking to understand what the goddess was telling him to do.  
What he did know was this: If he could achieve a victory without bloodshed, that would be more glorious than a victory in battle, if that battle resulted in the loss of valuable Spartan lives.  
He grunted to himself. That idea had an uncomfortably un-Spartan feeling to it, but… he knew it to be true.  
As these thoughts were running through his head, he was watching the Athenians forming up on the other side of the field, outside the long walls. He wondered if they would be foolish enough to attack. They had inferior numbers, and Demosthenes (Brasidas added to himself, May Hades take him,) was probably too smart to risk it. His whole purpose in taking the field was purely to show the Megarians that the Athenians had been cowed and would not fight; all he had to do was wait.

The morning slowly passed while the two armies looked at one another from a distance; until just before the sun reached its zenith, the Athenians began breaking ranks, going back into Nisaea, ceding the field to the Spartans.  
The Spartan army cheered, though it was a subdued cheer, as though they were disappointed not to be able to fight. Brasidas shook his head internally and had just begun giving the herald the order to go to the gates of the city and ask if the Spartans may be allowed to enter now when a Megarian herald was seen coming out of the city instead.  
‘Here comes our invitation,’ Brasidas said to Adimantos.  
His second in command grinned, and they rode out to meet the approaching messenger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> The obvious thing (besides difference in the game map to reality once more) is that the game doesn’t include any cavalry battles. It would have been a very different kind of game if it had. What makes it harder is that Thucydides fails us, as he did with Methone, in providing any kind of detail. He says that a long cavalry battle occurred which took all day and that’s about it… so, again, my retelling is only what *might* have happened from my (at best) sketchy understanding of what an ancient cavalry battle might have looked like. There is no way of knowing if we’re talking light (ie. armed with bows) or heavy (ie. armed with javelins) cavalry – so I have just glossed this entirely.  
> Demosthenes did declare a victory by keeping the bodies including the cavalry commander, thus forcing the Spartans to accept the truce; and he did build a trophy on the battleground. Even Thucydides implies that this was wrong because the result wasn’t decisive enough to call a victory.  
> The fate of the Spartans handed over to Demosthenes/the Athenians at Nisaea is unknown.  
> Demosthenes had a colleague with him, a General Hippocrates, who I haven’t mentioned just to keep things simple.


	21. Old Friends, Old Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note:  
> We are now entirely off the (game) map for a while. Thessaly doesn’t exist in Odyssey, which is honestly probably one of the weirdest decisions when it comes to the map. They’ve called part of Thessaly Malis, and erased all the settlements there with the exception of Pharsalos, which they replaced with the fort. It’s pretty weird, but here we are. Forgive me as I populate the area at will 😊  
> 

From a distance, as they approached over one of the small foothills to the east of Herakleia, Brasidas could see that the gates of the colony stood open and a busy throng of men and women were passing in and out, going about their everyday business. He marked the moment the army marching at his back was spotted: There was a sudden stilling of the traffic, followed a moment later by the sound of a salpinx calling the men to the walls.  
Brasidas had the herald sound a halt, then turned to Adimantos. ‘Better march ahead and announce our arrival.’  
His second-in-command barked an order for two guards to follow him and they marched at double time towards the small city.  
Alexios asked quietly, ‘Were they advised we were coming?’  
Brasidas hadn’t heard him come up from further back in the ranks, but he glanced at him with a half-smile. ‘Yes; but we know how good Alcidas is with passing on messages.’  
Alexios raised a brow, but didn’t reply; a moment later Adimantos reappeared at the gate, waving his arm.  
Brasidas indicated to the herald, who sounded the order to proceed, and the army continued forward, Adimantos re-joining them. ‘Alcidas sent word that we can camp on the northern side of town. There’s a field set aside there. Also, he’s waiting to speak with you.’  
Brasidas openly grimaced at the prospect of meeting with the man, but he said, ‘Pass the order then. I’ll go into the city.’ He indicated that Alexios should follow him, and they strode through the gates, the people stopping to stare as they passed.  
‘Who do you think they’re staring at - you or me?’ Alexios asked jokingly.  
Brasidas grinned and said wryly, ‘I think we both know the answer to that: Only one of us is called legendary and rumoured to be a demi-god.’

‘How long are you stopping here?’ Alcidas asked with a hard edge to his voice, eyeing Brasidas as though he was something dead which had been dragged into the room and the smell was now making him feel sick.  
Brasidas said, ‘Only the few days it will take for my escorts to arrive from the north. We should not be too great a burden.’  
He scoffed, bitterly. ‘That shows how much you know about provisioning a town this far from Sparta, and this close to Thessaly. We were lucky to avoid getting raided this summer. Our neighbours have fought against the foundation since the first stone was laid. It has been two relentless years of struggle.’ He paced to a window, looked out for a moment, then turned back. ‘Your so-called army - little more than a bunch of freed helots and the dregs that Korinth and Sicyon would spare you,’ he looked at Alexios pointedly, ‘with this disloyal pretender to the Agiad line included - will be a burden we can ill afford.’  
From the corner of his eyes, Brasidas saw Alexios’ jaw tighten as he shifted from one foot to another, tensing. Brasidas said in a conciliatory tone he did not feel, ‘As I said - it will be a few days at most, and we carry with us some provisions from Lokris. Believe me,’ he added very quietly, ‘We will stay no longer than we must. There is much to be done in the north.’  
Alcidas gave a twisted smile. ‘If you make it that far.’  
This time there was the distinct sound of a dagger being clicked loose from its sheath. Alexios demanded in a tone rich with warning, ‘Is that a threat?’  
Alcidas glanced at Alexios then back at Brasidas, assuming as amused expression, though the fear in his eyes was plain to see. The rumours of Alexios’ deeds and misdeeds echoed even this far north. ‘Is he your bodyguard or something?’  
Brasidas was aware of a smile quirking the corner of his mouth as Alexios snarled, ‘Maybe I am, or maybe I’m just a concerned citizen, here to safeguard the king’s chosen general. If you’re threatening the safety of him, or a single man in this army...’ he left the rest hanging.  
Alcidas hastily said, ‘Don’t be absurd. I was talking about your getting through Thessaly. I just said they raid us constantly; they want us out. They’ll hardly welcome an armed contingent of Spartans, no matter what their destination.’  
Alexios relaxed a little, though his hand remained at his dagger.  
Coolly, Brasidas asked, ‘Have the Thessalians declared war on Sparta?’  
Alcidas frowned. ‘Of course not.’  
‘Then we will proceed as though they are a neutral party. They may try to stop us, but my friends assure me they are less than organised. If we’re quick enough...’  
He scoffed. ‘If you’re quick enough, if the snows don’t come early, if they’re disorganised enough.... that’s a lot of ifs.’  
Brasidas said with a half shrug, ‘How many is too many in something as uncertain as war?’  
Alcidas looked at him a moment and then slowly shook his head. ‘I’m glad it’s you not me. It sounds like a fool’s errand, bound to end in disaster.’  
Brasidas almost said that, were it a fool’s errand, it would suit Alcidas best; but he settled for another half shrug. ‘If you’ve nothing further to say, I’d like to get some rest before training this afternoon.’  
Alcidas waved a hand to indicate he was done, and Brasidas and Alexios went out into the street outside the Leader House. 

Once they were in the street, Brasidas looked at Alexios for a moment, his eyes twinkling. ‘My bodyguard, hmm?’  
Alexios gave one of his easy grins. ‘Well - what else would you call it?’  
He smiled back, shaking his head lightly. They turned towards the gate that opened onto the field where the soldiers were constructing the temporary camp, walking easily side by side, both feeling oddly content to take a quiet moment together, despite all that lay before them.  
They hadn’t spoken about it, but Alexios had somehow or other come to take the place of the usual guards outside Brasidas’ tent ever since Megara. Brasidas had pretended not to notice, but now that he’d mentioned it, Brasidas braced himself against the oddly shy, fluttery feeling in his chest and asked, ‘How did that come about?’  
Alexios raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling. ‘What?’  
Brasidas felt heat prickle his cheeks. ‘You becoming my personal guard?’  
Alexios grinned, leaving Brasidas to think he’d deliberately made him say it out loud. He gave a shrug. ‘I started off sitting with the guards late into the night; then after a few hours I’d tell them they may as well go get some rest - they know I barely sleep.’ Brasidas watched him as he spoke, the misthios looking out towards Mount Olympos in the far distance. ‘After the first few nights, Adimantos came to me and asked if I intended to make it a habit, and since I said I did, he stopped sending guards at all.’ Alexios turned to Brasidas then, catching his gaze, and said with a warmth that made him flush, ‘So, now your personal safety is my sole concern.’  
Brasidas smiled and looked away, trying to hold down the great surge in his feelings that this brought. That Alexios should take that responsibility onto himself was… he didn’t have the words for it, only intense feelings that have no names: Love, yes, but mixed with the burning of his suppressed desire that threatened to flow over ceaselessly, and the eternal prickle of fear that they would be found out, or that he would make a mistake because his mind was a whirl of feelings.  
Over and above all of that though, he was dangerously happy – the kind of happiness he didn’t think he ought to feel in the middle of a campaign, or perhaps at any time. The kind of happiness that threatened to consume him, drove sleep from his eyes and sense from his head.  
Not for the first time, he had the distinct feeling that they were playing with fire, despite both of them knowing they shouldn’t. Not that that made any difference. There was no going back now.

Two days later, Brasidas and the army arrived at Meliteia at the end of a long day of marching through low, wooded mountains. The walled township on the edge of the Thessalian plain was a very welcome sight.  
Brasidas’ Thessalian connections were waiting for him there, and came out to meet him as the army began setting up their camp for the night. He clasped hands with each of the three men, and introduced them to Alexios and Adimantos.  
‘This is Dorus,’ he said, indicating a short, intense looking man with gleaming dark eyes, ‘He comes from Pharsalos. This is Nikonidas of Larissa.’ He was a plain looking man, but he had an intelligent face. ‘Nikonidas has the honour of calling King Perdiccas his personal friend; and this is Strophacus. He’s come the furthest to meet us – from Arnai, in Makedonia. He’s the consular representative of our friends in Chalcidice.’  
Strophacus, a middle-aged, cheerful looking man was the first to speak. He greeted Brasidas warmly, then he turned to Alexios as he said, ‘I’d heard that you were travelling with the legendary Eagle Bearer.’ He bowed – actually bowed. ‘It is a great honour to meet you.’  
Brasidas raised his eyebrows with amusement as Alexios, trying to look modest but with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, thanked him. Strophacus continued, ‘Will you be assisting us in the campaign to come?’  
Alexios said firmly, ‘I’m in until the General tells me I’m out.’  
Adimantos interposed in his flat, deadpan voice, though clearly joking, ‘There would be a riot if you tried, General.’  
Brasidas held up his hands in mock defensiveness. ‘Who said I was intending to?’  
Strophacus laughed, and said, ‘Come this way – we have prepared a small feast to celebrate our great enterprise.’

It was nice to be at ease for more than a few moments, Brasidas thought as, through the fog of a little more wine than he should have taken, he watched the five men at the table talking comfortably with each other.  
‘Tell me about Perdiccas,’ Alexios said suddenly. He was probably the least drunk in the room, Brasidas thought, or perhaps he just hid it better than the others.  
Nikonidas considered the question for a moment, swirling wine in the kylix he held. ‘He’s a mercurial man. Intelligent, fierce in his loyalties, and quick to see a slight – though not so stubborn as to hold a grudge forever.’ He set the kylix down, and said, ‘He’s a good king, I think. He wishes only the best for his people.’  
Alexios had been listening closely; he said, ‘Then there is good reason to favour his cause.’  
‘There is,’ Nikonidas said, glancing at Brasidas, ‘Though many in Thessaly have yet to be persuaded of Sparta’s intentions.’  
Brasidas said comfortably, ‘They will be persuaded in time, when they see our intentions are good.’  
Dorus was looking at a point somewhere on the ceiling, but he suddenly looked at Brasidas and said, ‘About that, Brasidas...’  
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’  
‘What does Sparta intend to do with the people you liberate?’  
‘Do?’ Brasidas asked, puzzled but still smiling. ‘We’re here to free them from Athens. What else could liberate mean?’  
Dorus was intense as he asked, ‘Freedom in what sense?’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘I feel like we’ve entered a philosophical discussion that I wasn’t ready for. Freedom in the only sense of freedom.’  
Dorus looked at him with a shake of the head. ‘You expect me to believe that? Or that Sparta has no ambitions of building an empire of her own?’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘Do you doubt my word?’  
Dorus held up his hands placatingly. ‘No – I don’t doubt your personal intentions Brasidas, but I do question what the state wants from this campaign. I came here because of our family’s mutual guest friendship, but I have to tell you that the men of Pharsalos will never support your presence in Thessaly.’  
Brasidas snorted. ‘I never expected them to.’ He paused a moment then said, ‘I assure you - Sparta wants no empire; only the end of the Athenian stranglehold on Greece and to draw her away from Lakonia.’  
Dorus was single-minded. ‘Assurances other than your word?’  
Brasidas said, ‘Yes. The King’s and ephors have sworn an oath before the gods and heroes of Sparta that any cities which choose to secede will be offered full autonomy, and Spartan support in their struggle against Athens.’  
Everyone in the room stared at him in surprise except Alexios, who Brasidas noticed was shaking his head with a wry smile playing on his lips.  
‘How did you swing that?’ Dorus asked.  
Brasidas shrugged. ‘I asked. After discussion, they agreed.’  
Alexios said to Dorus quietly, ‘There’s no point asking Brasidas how he did it. He thinks he’s just another no one back in Sparta. He doesn’t realise the Spartans worship the ground he walks on. He could ask for anything and they’d give it to him.’  
Brasidas snorted, feeling a little flustered. ‘I’m not that popular, you crazy malaka.’  
Alexios grinned at his use of malaka, a strong echo of his own use of the word, and something the general would never have said if he wasn’t tipsy. Alexios turned back to Dorus and said, ‘I rest my case.’  
Dorus smiled. ‘I doubt you will meet much resistance in the north with an offer like that.’  
Brasidas said with a sigh, ‘Only the gods know; and besides, first we must get there.’

Their march north from Meliteia across the Thessalian plain was ceaseless and hard going, as they marched both day and night, with only short breaks to eat and rest. Speed was everything. They would be free of immediate danger only when they reached Mount Olympos.  
On the second day marching, they were met at the Eripus River, just south of Pharsalos, by a small group of men who Dorus recognised as members of the people’s party in that city. Their leader, named Melias, was an older, angry faced man. They eyed Dorus with deep distrust when he stepped forward to speak with them.  
‘What do you mean, crossing this land without permission under arms with this Spartan?’ Melias demanded.  
Dorus said, ‘Brasidas is under the protection of my family’s guest friendship. There is no reason he should not pass this way.’  
Melias scoffed. ‘We both know that the people have never, and would never agree to it.’ Melias’ agitation was increasing as he said, ‘You don’t have the right to decide for the population who should and should not cross these lands!’  
Dorus said heatedly, ‘And neither do you, Melias!’  
Brasidas placed a retraining hand on Dorus’ arm. His voice was calm as he said, ‘Sparta comes as friends to Thessaly and its people, Melias. We do not bear arms against you, but against Athens; as the whole world knows, we are at war with them.’ He frowned, feigning confusion. ‘There is no hostility between our two peoples which forbids us access, is there?’  
Melias narrowed his eyes. ‘There is not,’ he conceded, but then hastily added, ‘But neither is there a land in Greece which would allow you access under arms without the approval of the people. Even an uneducated Spartan like you should know that.’  
Brasidas raised an eyebrow at that. Petty men were ever apt to sling petty insults, he reminded himself. Coolly, he said, ‘If you say that we must not proceed, then of course we shall not. I assume you in fact have the agreement of the people? It has been debated in the bouleuterion?’  
Melias looked surprised, then hesitant. He looked at the men behind him for a moment.  
Before he could reply to the question, Brasidas said, ‘I’m going to take your lack of immediate answer as a no. So, until it has been debated, and a decision made, we will continue on our way.’  
Melias made some objections to this, but the backbone of his argument had been destroyed. As Brasidas called to the herald to sound the order to proceed, the small cluster of Pharsalians turned away together, talking in lowered voices amongst themselves.  
Dorus caught Brasidas’ elbow, and said, ‘I’ll stay here and see that the council hears the details of what you intend. It will take time for Melias to summon the men from the outlying farms and settlements to vote. I will do what I can to extend the discussion into a second day. Even if they vote for armed resistance in the end, it will take time for the men to muster. That will give you at least three days.’  
Brasidas nodded. ‘Enough time to get us to Olympos unhindered.’ He grasped his friend’s hand warmly. ‘Thank you, Dorus.’  
‘May the gods bless you and keep you, Brasidas.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strophacus refers to the campaign as 'our enterprise' because Chalcidice were the instigators of the northern campaign and as events will show, were very keen to turn their backs on Athenian domination. It's a region in the north; loosely speaking, the palm of the three fingered hand that is Makedonia and at that time within the kingdom of Perdiccas. I have glossed over it to avoid confusion (hopefully).  
> Nikonidas, Strophacus and Dorus are only three of a group of six of Brasidas’ guest-friends that guided him across Thessaly and Makedonia – the others were named Panaerus, Hippolochidas and Torymbas. I have chosen to use only three for the sake of simplicity. Their positions/places of residence are mostly taken from Thucydides, although the specific town of Arnai for Strophacus is only my speculation based on later campaign details.  
> How these men came to be guest-friends of Brasidas is not disclosed. Cartledge tells us that these relationships were often inherited from generation to generation, and I think it likely that that’s the case here.  
> The stop at the (Eripus) river near Pharsalos is taken directly from Thucydides, who actually tells us what Brasidas said, albeit not as direct speech.   
> I have used the ‘Digital Atlas of the Roman Empire’ (available online) for my understanding of the places Brasidas travelled through in the coming years of campaigning in the north, including a general sense of the geography.  
> It may be of interest to note that the Herakleia Bandit Camp in the game, just beyond Laleia (which as far as I can tell, didn’t exist), is loosely the location of the real Herakleia, the Spartan colony begun by Alcidas (amongst others).


	22. Two Northern Kings

424BC  
Autumn

The march felt endless – days and nights ran into one another and blurred, and Brasidas thanked the gods for his Spartan training. He could bear only one meal and four hours sleep a day with equanimity; some of the Korinthians didn’t cope so well. In reality, though, what felt like half a lifetime was only a few days. By the time they reached Dium, and Perdiccas’ kingdom, the autumn had settled in across the north; rain came in frequent heavy showers, the leaves yellowed, the nights came down sooner and there was a hint of ice on the breeze from the mountains.  
Brasidas allowed them a short break from the march at Dium – a day and a night to catch their breath and get some sleep before they carried on towards Arnai in the heart of Chaldice where they were to meet Perdiccas.  
Brasidas was sitting beside a campfire in the agora, where the army had settled for the night. He was looking up between the shade sails that straddled the narrow walkways between stalls, admiring the stars that were peeping now and then between the thick clouds that had settled in as they had come closer to Mount Olympos. He glanced over at Adimantos, who was stretched out asleep beside the fire, his head pillowed on his arms; then at Alexios, who was sitting beside him, back against a crate, looking up at the mountain, a brooding expression on his face.  
‘Have you climbed it before?’ Brasidas asked quietly.  
Alexios glanced at him then back at the mountain for a moment before he said, ‘No.’  
Gently joking, he said, ‘Didn’t you tell me you’ve climbed every mountain in the Greek world?’  
Alexios gave a half smile. ‘I did.’ He paused for a moment before he said, ‘Do you remember when I told you that I felt Hades calling to me?’  
Brasidas felt his chest constrict. Since the conversation back in Sparta years earlier, he had almost convinced himself that the whole exchange had been a dream; or that Alexios had just been feeling maudlin because of the nightmare. ‘Yes, I remember.’  
‘It’s there, on the mountain. The gateway.’  
‘How do you know?’  
Alexios took a deep breath and slowly let it out. ‘It’s in my blood, Brasidas.’  
He looked at him for a moment, considering this. ‘Are you telling me…’ He stopped and frowned.  
Alexios raised an eyebrow, and finished the sentence, ‘That the rumours about me aren’t just rumours? Yes, I am.’  
Their eyes met and held for a long moment, Brasidas half-hoping that he was joking, but it was clear from his expression that he wasn’t. He didn’t know what to say; a sense of disbelief faded swiftly into amazement as the realisation that he was telling the truth sunk in; but there was also… worry. It occurred to him that if Alexios was immortal, then when the time came for him to go to Hades, he wouldn’t have the hope of meeting him there. He wondered at himself for the thought, and frowned against it.  
Alexios shifted closer, though with Adimantos nearby he dared not do anything else. In an undertone, he said, ‘Stop looking so frightened.’  
Brasidas sighed, suppressing his irritation at the suggestion. He said, ‘I’m not frightened. I’m wondering - are you immortal?’  
Alexios said, ‘I can do things that an ordinary man can’t, as you know, but it will kill me one day.’ He tilted his head a little as he asked gently, ‘Why do you ask?’  
The truth was too soft, too tender to admit, even if they had been in privacy. Instead he said carefully, ‘I just wanted to know.’  
Alexios tilted his head, seeing that there was more but he only said apologetically, ‘I should have told you sooner.’  
‘It makes no difference,’ Brasidas said, meeting his eyes, forgiveness already granted. ‘I knew you were an exceptional fighter; now I know why.’  
Alexios’ mouth quirked with a smile. ‘And you’re almost my equal, without my advantages. What does that say about you?’  
Brasidas leant his head back against the crate behind them and closed his eyes. He was smiling, despite himself. ‘That a trained Spartan is equal to a demi-god.’  
Alexios chuckled lightly, but all he said was, ‘Malaka.’

On the first night out from Dium, Brasidas woke in his tent, aware that Alexios was kneeling beside his pallet.  
‘What is it?’ he asked, sitting up. He couldn’t see the details of Alexios’ face in the darkness, only his outline against the dim light of the campfire outside.  
The misthios didn’t say anything for a moment, and Brasidas wondered if he was sleeping; but a moment later, he said quietly, his voice full of an emotion that Brasidas couldn’t quite identify – sadness perhaps, but there was something else in it. Resolution? Regret? Perhaps even quiet anger. He said, ‘I have to go.’  
Brasidas knew what he was talking about and felt his own heart give a double beat of fear. ‘To the mountain?’  
Alexios nodded. ‘Adimantos is sending guards to you.’ He looked away then, and Brasidas could see his profile as he looked out at the campfire for a moment. ‘They’re coming now.’ He turned back, and with infinite tenderness, he caressed Brasidas’ cheek and kissed him gently and lovingly on the lips. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’  
That’s when he recognised that note in the misthios’ voice – he too was afraid. Brasidas said with a burr in his own voice, ‘I’ll be looking for you at every turning in the road.’  
Alexios stood then and lingered only a moment longer. ‘Be careful,’ he said softly, before going out the open side of the tent.  
‘You too,’ Brasidas murmured, watching him disappear into the darkness beyond the campfire.

They had already reached Arnai when the news came to them that Perdiccas had sent for Brasidas’ army to join him in the west at a city named Edessa. He looked at Adimantos, who was beside him, and shook his head slightly. His second in command rolled his eyes.  
The herald who brought the news was young and cheerful, and seemed taken aback by their reaction. He shifted from foot to foot with a worried expression.  
‘What use has Perdiccas for us there?’ Brasidas asked with a frown. He was in the mood to say no. The Makedonian King had promised he would meet Brasidas and the army on the road before they reached Arnai. Appointed places and times were set, but the King simply never arrived, and the army had continued on. Why no meeting had been set in Edessa was a mystery unfathomable to him now, since that was where Perdiccas was. They’d passed within a half day’s march of the city, and they could have gone directly there. Instead, he’d come two days march further east, a path he would now have to retrace; and, more importantly, he had not yet met Perdiccas. Noting all that, the fact that the king was happy to start making demands of his army grated against Brasidas’ sense of diplomatic good sense, and his independence.  
The herald said, ‘Perdiccas has quarrelled with the Lynkestrian king, Arrhabaeus, and he wishes to reinforce his authority over the king and his people. With a Spartan army, my King believes the campaign will easily be completed before winter. He reminds you that he has been providing your army with sustenance. It is in return for his generosity that he makes this request.’  
Brasidas frowned. Perdiccas had, as part of the agreement with the kings and ephors in Sparta, been providing half the provisions for Brasidas’ army from his own pocket. This was quite usual in these kinds of agreements, but it was never intended in any way to curtail Brasidas’ mission. That Perdiccas was now threatening its withdrawal as a kind of bribery really sat badly with him.  
Adimantos seemed to see the general direction of his thoughts, and intervened. He said to the herald, ‘Tell Perdiccas we will come.’  
The herald thanked them both, and then was escorted away by a young soldier named Antidas.  
Adimantos said quietly to Brasidas, ‘We should be eating our midday meal. Shall I fetch you something?’  
Brasidas said absently, ‘Yes, thank you.’  
As his second in command went away towards the mess, he turned broodingly into his tent.

He’d just picked up writing implements with the intention of sending a skytale to Sparta with news of these developments when he saw Antidas approaching with another messenger – this one clearly not Makedonian, to judge by the style of the tunic he wore.  
‘Sir,’ Antidas said, ‘This is Cebos. He comes from the Lynk.. Lynkast…’  
The messenger said with a strange accent to his Greek, ‘Lynkestria, General.’  
The guard flushed and glared at the messenger, but Brasidas, almost smiling, said, ‘Never mind, Antidas. Thank you.’  
Grouchily, Antidas turned away, and Brasidas said to the messenger, ‘I’ve only just heard of your people, and here you are.’  
‘I assume,’ Cebos said pleasantly, ‘That you heard of us from Perdiccas. The Makedonian King wishes to cow us General, and my king, Arrhabaeus, begs that you will not allow him.’  
Brasidas sighed, setting down the skytale he realised he was still holding, and sat back from the table. ‘What does King Arrhabaeus offer for me to defy my ally’s wishes?’  
‘My king asks only that you might serve as mediator between the Makedonians and the Lynkestrians, that a war might be averted. In return, he offers the friendship and alliance of my people with Sparta.’  
Brasidas pondered this. ‘Even if I am unsuccessful in averting the conflict?’  
The messenger smiled then, though he made a show of trying not to. ‘We have heard much of you, Brasidas. My King does not think you will fail…. but he does remind you that there is another reason to side with us, other than gaining our friendship.’  
‘Which is?’  
‘Perhaps the General doesn’t yet know the mercurial nature of the Makedonian king. We have seen first-hand that once Perdiccas has oppressed all his external enemies, he turns against his allies. Arrhabaeus was once Perdiccas’ closest ally himself.’ He paused to allow Brasidas to consider that.  
Brasidas privately found this a persuasive argument, but he said, ‘Assure your king that his arguments have been heard, and that I will always act as I see fit for the ultimate good of Sparta.’  
Cebos bowed his head and thanked him, before stepping out of the tent where Antidas was waiting to escort him out of the camp.  
Brasidas watched them retreat between the tents before disappearing from view. He sighed heavily and offered up thanks to the gods for having provided him with a pater who had taught him how to cope with politics. These northern kings were just as bad as the Spartan ones.  
He saw Adimantos coming back towards the tent, and he gave Brasidas an easy smile. ‘Another herald?’  
‘Yes,’ Brasidas said, smiling back. He had come to appreciate Adimantos; he’d had large shoes to fill when Praxidas had been taken to Athens, but he’d done so with distinction. ‘This one from the other side – with good arguments for why we should defy Perdiccas.’ He took the food Adimantos offered him, and they sat down to eat while Brasidas told him all that the herald had said.

The army reached Edessa and Perdiccas a few days later. Brasidas went at once to meet with the Makedonian king, who was staying in a vast house with columns on its frontage like a temple. That was in bad taste, Brasidas felt in the fibres of his Spartan soul; but the inside was worse. There was far too much by way of carpets, wall hangings and golden statues. He had to stop himself curling his lip at it all.  
Perdiccas himself was a tall man with a noble look about him, from the graceful sweep of his profile to the straight-backed way of carrying himself. His most distinguishing feature, and the one he was clearly proudest of, was his long loose curly hair, somewhere between black and brown in colour, held in place with a headband.  
Perdiccas stepped down from his dais to greet Brasidas, presenting his hand in a limp, unmanly way that made Brasidas have to fight back the urge to recoil from the clasp.  
‘You’ve arrived at last,’ he said in an unexpectedly firm voice. ‘We have been waiting for you.’  
Brasidas said briefly, ‘We came as soon as we had restocked for the march.’  
‘The food I sent reached you?’  
‘It did.’  
‘Excellent.’ He rubbed his hands together, then offered Brasidas a seat placed lower than his own. Brasidas, already conscious that Perdiccas clearly thought he was a General for hire, said, ‘No, thank you. I would rather stand.’  
The king smiled. ‘You Spartans, always trying to show how hardened you are. Surely you’re tired from your journey? Come, sit. You need not prove anything here.’  
Brasidas bristled at the suggestion that a Spartan had anything to prove; but diplomacy urged him to sit, so he perched on the edge of the seat, in a way which made it clear he did so only to satisfy the king's urging. ‘I understand you wish to march on Arrhabaeus and his people.’  
Perdiccas had seated himself and was arranging his robes around his legs in a fussy way as he said, ‘We shall do so, yes. That man has been a thorn in my side for years. He thinks he can overrule any of my commands – as though it is not through my grace alone that he keeps his lands.’  
Brasidas said, ‘Then it seems we have a problem. Sparta has not come to the north in order to fight wars on local matters. We are not mercenaries. We have come to make allies and friends – including yourself – and strike at Athens; nothing more.’  
Perdiccas had stilled, and he narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’  
Decisively, he said, ‘I intend to go to the Lynkestrians and seek an alliance of equals, under the protection of Sparta.’  
‘Impossible! The wounds between us run too deep.’  
Brasidas raised an eyebrow. ‘I have no reason to think they cannot be healed. The emissary from Arrhabaeus made it clear that the Lynkestrians wish only for peace.’  
‘You've met with their emissaries?’  
Brasidas held the king’s gaze, remaining entirely calm. He had to make his agenda known, ensure the king knew he was not there to do his bidding; but at the same time, he still wished to show that he was a friend and could be trusted. ‘I have. Twice. I said only that I would speak with you on the matter; however, my own decision is made. I’ve been told you are both intelligent and rational, a good king. I was – am - certain you wish to save the lives of your soldiers if possible.’ Perdiccas was clearly irritated, but Brasidas could tell he had added just enough flattery to at least prevent him interrupting. ‘Then there are Sparta’s instructions to me: I am to bring peace, freedom and alliance where I can, not war and oppression, except where it is needed to prevent the failure of our cause.’  
Perdiccas had assumed a sour expression. ‘And what will you do if I say no to this peace you propose?’  
‘Then I will seek it without your approval.’ He knew what Perdiccas was thinking. If Brasidas succeeded in reaching an agreement with Arrhabaeus, the terms of the alliance between Sparta and Makedonia would prevent Perdiccas from attacking the Lynkestrians afterwards. An attack on an ally of Sparta was an attack on Sparta herself - and he needed them too much for that.  
The king said severely, ‘This is some way to show me that Sparta wishes to be a true ally to Makedonia. Need I remind you of my generosity?’  
‘With all due respect,’ Brasidas said carefully, ‘We can do very well without it, if it means that what we envisaged - a partnership of equal but independent interests – will be in any way impeded. Sparta, me, and this army are working together with you. We do not work for you.’  
Perdiccas gave him a steely look which Brasidas returned with a neutral expression. He waited for the King to respond.  
When he did finally answer, his voice was calmer than it had been, though his face remained sour. ‘That’s your final decision, then? To defy my wishes?’  
‘If you will not bend on your position, then yes, I will.’  
Perdiccas stood stiffly, and before he swept from the room, he said, ‘Then I will act accordingly.’  
When he was gone, Brasidas exhaled. He had half expected the king to order the guards to take him away and have him executed. At least it had not ended that way – though whether he had just done irreparable damage to Sparta’s relationship with Makedonia remained to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> Apologies for a) how long its taken me to get this chapter up, and b) for the loads of details in the next few chapters. An awful lot goes on in a short space of time, so it’s taken me a little while to break that down into anything like palatable chunks resembling fiction. I really hope these next few chapters don’t prove to be too dry!
> 
> Perdiccas [as far as I’m aware] made no promises to meet Brasidas prior to meeting up with him before marching on the Lynkestrians – Thucydides leaves the timeline (as always) brilliantly unclear – but I like the idea of him being difficult from the outset. It fits his later behaviour. He did in fact reduce his contributions to Brasidas’ army to a third – one of many times in his life when he acted out of pique.


	23. The Speech

424BC  
Late Autumn

The bouleuterion was in uproar. Brasidas stood alone on one side of the speaker’s area. The chairman was at that moment attempting to silence them; Brasidas could only wait.  
He came to be standing there, in Akanthos, because of his actions with the Lynkestrians. There had been no battle, just as he had intended. In open defiance of Perdiccas’ wishes, he had met with Arrhabaeus, and made alliance between the Lynkestrians and Sparta.  
The Makedonian king had been forced to accept it, but he did so with very bad grace. He’d immediately cut his contributions to Brasidas’ army to a third of what he had been supplying previously – but Brasidas was content. It was a small price to pay for the influence these actions had upon the other cities in the north who were considering leaving the Athenian alliance but had, until then, held off.  
Only two days earlier, he’d received an envoy from Akanthos, a city south east of Arnai, at the neck of the Acte peninsula of Makedonia. The envoy represented a group of influential city councillors who believed that the city could be persuaded to secede, if Brasidas would only bring his army there.  
He found on his arrival, though, that the people at large were still wary of what he was offering them. They had agreed to admit him alone so that he could address them – and Brasidas thought that it was probably only their fear – their crops were ripe in the fields – that had even made them bend that far.  
The chief magistrate had finally managed to quiet the mass of the voters, and he now indicated that Brasidas should step forward address them.  
The few men who had still been arguing and sniping amongst themselves ceased when he took the floor. For a long moment, he just looked up at them, around at them, letting them see by his face that he was not angry, but calm and resolute. At least he hoped that’s what showed.  
‘Men of Akanthos,’ he began, tucking his hands behind his back. ‘You all know why I’m here. Sparta has made no secret of her cause – that is, the liberation of Greece from the Athenians.’  
That caused a slight murmur of voices, and someone said, ‘You took your time coming!’  
Brasidas rocked back on his heels for a moment trying to spot who had spoken without success, before he said, ‘Your criticism is fair, but our reasons for delay were sound: we had hoped to break the Athenians on their own lands, at their own gates, and avoid involving the innocent in our risk. This task we assumed we assumed alone, and hoped to complete it alone. Yet, we are here now, asking for your help, your friendship, which we will hit them where it hurts most – in their coffers.’  
He took a couple of paces before he said thoughtfully, ‘I must say that I’m surprised that you have refused to open the gates, and offer my army no welcome. I was brought here in the belief that we were allies already, at least in spirit, and that you would be glad at our arrival. I hardly need mention the risks that we have run to reach you; yet we did not hesitate in support of your worthy cause, only to find that you hesitate now.’  
He paused, looking around at them all, then changed tack. ‘Before you decide that you have changed your minds and turn us away once and for all, I beg that you consider what that will mean for the rest of Greece. You cannot view what you do next as a question as one of only your own resistance. No. Whatever you decide will cause great ripples into the future. If you turn me away from here, a notable and well-placed city with a deserved reputation for intelligent governance, imagine how much less likely the next city I approach will be to accept our assistance. How will I explain your decision today? They will think that you’ve rejected Sparta’s assistance because the freedom I bring is spurious, which is not so; or perhaps that I don’t have the strength to protect you from the Athenians retaliation if you do free yourselves.  
Let me address both of these concerns now. You must know that this army, which stands outside your gates, is the very same that, when we marched on Nisaea, the Athenians were so frightened, they did not even dare engage us in battle – and here they do not even have an army! A few scattered outposts, a camp or two.’ He scoffed. ‘We will drive these men from your lands, and any Athenian army sent to replace it.’  
There was another murmur of voices at this, but no one spoke out, and so he continued, ‘As for me; I come with only one cause - to free the north from the Athenian yoke. Before I left Sparta, I bound the kings and ephors by the solemnest of oaths that those who willingly joined us now would retain their own governance, their own autonomy. No new burden will be placed upon you, nothing will be required of you – no contributions of men or money. I don’t hesitate to personally offer you the sincerest of assurances. I am here to secure your independence from Athens and nothing else.’  
There was a louder murmur amongst the assembly, and he paused again before saying with a harder edge to his voice, ‘In case you’re thinking that Sparta has changed in some way – broken or gone soft - I must tell you that there will be consequences if, despite this, you fail to accept my offer.’  
The men were silent now, waiting for the sting in the tail they had all suspected was coming. Brasidas frowned, and continued, ‘If you refuse this offer, I will have no choice but to call upon the gods and heroes of Sparta as witnesses that I have offered you your freedom, have sought to impose nothing on a city which is obviously sympathetic to our cause, and thereafter I will be justified in what I must do. I will ravage your land and anything else necessary to force you into an agreement with us. I can’t leave you uncommitted, to hinder the liberation of the rest of Greece, implanting seeds of doubt into the minds of others who would accept our offer, nor to continue contributing to Athens treasury.’  
He looked at them with more compassion then, and allowed the hard edge to leave his voice. ‘Were the circumstances different, I would never act in this way. To force liberation upon you despite your reluctance would never be appropriate except for this cause: the common good of all Greece.’  
He saw that this received the mixed reception he’d expected, and thought he had said enough. He finished up with, ‘Think long and hard about how you wish to be remembered, men of Akanthos: will you be the first to join the cause of a liberated Greece? Or will you instead be the first to turn your backs on freedom when it is offered you?’  
Brasidas stepped aside, and the chief magistrate said to him, ‘Come – you can eat and rest at the guesthouse while we deliberate. We’ll send a boy to fetch you when a decision is reached.’  
Brasidas thanked him and went away in the direction he indicated. He hoped he had done enough, said enough; but now it was in the hands of the Fates.

Brasidas had dozed off against a tree in the forecourt of the guesthouse when the boy came to fetch him. He was perhaps only seven or eight years of age, skinny legged and fresh faced.  
As they walked back towards the bouleuterion Brasidas asked him, ‘Do you know the result of the debate?’  
The boy looked up at him with a solemn face and said in his piping voice, ‘It was a secret vote, sir. They were still counting when they sent me.’  
The bouleuterion was quiet when he re-entered, and the chief magistrate came forward to shake his hand. ‘We have voted to make an alliance with Sparta on condition that you swear an oath before the gods that your promises of autonomy are true.’  
Brasidas felt a great relief. He warmly replied, ‘Of course. Anything that you require will be done.’  
‘Thank you,’ the chief magistrate said with great feeling, ‘Then we can feast and drink to our newfound freedom.’

Once Brasidas had made the pledge before the voters with the sacrificing of a goat, the army was admitted into Akanthos. It was growing dark by then, the first stars a smattering across the sky. The people had prepared a feast for all, and there was music and dancing in the streets.  
Brasidas stayed as long as he felt necessary, talking with the councillors who wished to congratulate him or who were still seeking some private assurance of what he had pledged; but as soon as he could, he slipped away up onto the walls.  
As he gained the top, he greeted the young man who was on watch up there.  
‘What’s your name?’ he asked quietly, stopping to look out across the water which stretched away to the north east, the lights of distant settlements not far from Amphipolis visible on his left.  
‘Boros,’ the young man said, looking at him in surprise, which Brasidas noted from the corner of his eye, and which made his mouth tilt with amusement. Clearly Boros had heard talk of the arrogance of Spartans, and Brasidas always liked to surprise outsiders by contradicting that particular preconception.  
‘A beautiful night,’ Brasidas said. ‘How much longer before the snows come, do you think?’  
Boros put a hand up to his beard and tugged at it as he said, ‘We might get another month, if we’re lucky.’  
‘It snows a lot?’  
He nodded. ‘Though it’s not so bad down here on the triple peninsulas, further inland winter is harsher. I have a brother who lives north of Amphipolis,’ he added in explanation. ‘I often tell him he should come back down this way, but he’s stubborn.’ He smiled fondly.  
‘It’s been a long time since you saw him?’  
‘It is – two years and more. The winters make it hard to travel that far north, and during summer there is always too much work to be done.’ He sighed. Then shyly, he asked, ‘Will you return to Sparta for the winter?’  
Brasidas shook his head slowly. He hadn’t vocalised his thoughts before, though he had known even when he’d set out for Korinthia from Sparta what he intended. ‘No. I won’t return to Sparta until my work here is done.’  
Boros nodded. ‘You have no family that will wish you home?’  
Brasidas could have laughed – bitterly – but he just shook his head. ‘Spartans do not have the same familial ties as others,’ he said, aware that this was only partially true. ‘Sparta is our family first – and what Sparta requires must take precedence.’ He rested a hand on Boros’ shoulder briefly, and then turned away; before he had got more than a couple of steps, Boros said nervously, ‘Before you go General, if I might be so bold… I heard a rumour today that our brother colony to the north at Stagirus wishes to secede. I didn’t know if anyone had mentioned it to you…’  
Brasidas flashed a brief smile. ‘No, no one has mentioned it. Thank you.’  
Boros smiled back, and they said goodnight.  
Brasidas continued along the walls, hands behind his back, walking pensively. He was satisfied with his work that day, and since he had come into the north, but he felt melancholy. Until he knew that Alexios was alright, he would worry somewhere in the back of his mind.  
As he approached a turn in the wall, he observed Adimantos ahead, his hands on his hips, looking out along the coast. He was struck by his stillness. Just as he thought this, his second in command turned, saw him and smiled.  
‘Seems we had the same idea then.’  
Brasidas smiled back and went to stand beside him. ‘Yes – a moment to take stock.’  
Adimantos looked at him for a moment, then back at the landscape outside the walls. ‘You seem melancholy lately,’ he observed.  
Brasidas tried to put a light tone into his voice, but he thought he sounded more cautious than anything. ‘I don’t like the cold; you know that.’  
Adimantos smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Then you had better brace yourself, General,’ he said as he turned away. ‘I’ll go check up on the men, make sure they’re settled.’  
‘Before you do, I think we have a good chance at Stagirus. Scouts should be sent there tomorrow.’  
Adimantos nodded. ‘Consider it arranged.’  
‘Thank you,’ Brasidas said turning back to the view as Adimantos cast one last look at him before turning away himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> We bring you freedom and autonomy! Which we will force upon you. *smh* The irony was clearly lost on the ancients.  
> The speech Brasidas makes to the Akanthians is reworked directly from the one Thucydides’ wrote for Brasidas. That this had any resemblance to what was truly said is unlikely, but it's certainly as close as we will ever get now.  
> All the details – of the army not being admitted straight away, and Brasidas going into the city alone to speak to the people, the secret vote and their insisting that he swear on oath that they would have autonomy – are all taken from Thucydides.  
> Stagirus did in fact follow Akanthos in seceding. They were both Andrian colonies and were no doubt closely tied to one another.


	24. A Winter Campaign

424BC  
Winter

Winter came with a fist of ice. The days grew short, snow fell, and the Korinthians in his army began to harden up with the relentless training that Brasidas insisted upon for all of them, even in the worst weather. He was supervising their training in light snowfall in Arnai, preparatory to a campaign that would commence on the following morning; but for now, he put those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the training.  
‘Automedon – keep your guard up!’ he shouted, and the young man hastily corrected his lapse. He viewed this immediate correction with satisfaction. His belief that any man could fight effectively if he received the right guidance had served him well. He’d seen at first hand that if a man trained with dedication, he could always become an effective soldier. On the flip side of that, far from confirming that an Equal was by birth a good soldier, experience had shown that simply wasn’t true. Spartans were special only in that they were more intensely trained, and even despite that, they were as inherently weak and flawed as everyone else…  
‘Stop!’ He shouted. The phalanx of men paused and looked at him expectantly. ‘Second from the end – who is that? Pelias! Get your feet where they should be!’ The young man shuffled about a little, and Brasidas said, ‘Better! Carry on.’  
For himself – well. He had long since stopped telling himself that by believing this, along with many other things, that he was no longer a good Spartan. He almost snorted at the thought. A good Spartan was one who simply did what Sparta told him to do, without complaint, to the best of his ability – and if that meant in a so-called non-Spartan way, without a spear to the throat - then that was how it should be done.  
‘Stop! Caracas, what are you doing with that spear?’ He strode out to where the young man in question waited, and corrected the position of the spear, saying, ‘Keep it like this – don’t let it drop too low behind you or it will cause troubles for the second row.’ Caracas nodded, and he withdrew to the side again, calling out, ‘Carry on!’  
Brasidas rubbed his hands together against the cold. He was reminded of the winter spent in the mountains above Sparta; the face of Nikolaos coming back to him suddenly, the hard-earnt smile of approval that had always warmed Brasidas’ heart until now. Now it just brought him a kind of pain. If Nikolaos came to know about Alexios…  
Adimantos thankfully interrupted this train of thought. He’d approached from the stables, unheard. ‘The preparations are complete, General.’  
Brasidas smiled slightly. ‘Good. Ensure the men are prepared to march at first light tomorrow.’  
Adimantos nodded, and came to stand beside him, watching the training for a moment before he said, ‘Are you sure you want to undertake this in the winter?’  
Brasidas wryly said, ‘They won’t expect us to come now. It is an advantage we will need.’  
Adimantos nodded once, and then fell silent, watching the training.  
Brasidas’ mind wandered to the coming campaign: Amphipolis.  
The city was the jewel in the Thraceward region’s crown, an Athenian colony, found many years earlier. The empire depended on it for the timber which built and maintained their navy. The idea of Sparta – and Brasidas himself - taking that from them had a nice poetic justice to it.   
Amphipolis was enclosed on two sides by the river, and on the third side by a well-built wall, so it was in a very good defensive position. It was accessible from the west via one narrow bridge which would take them into farmland which lay outside the walls, filled with farms and homes.   
The need for surprise had nothing to do with numbers, as the city had no standing army, but in order to take the bridge without resistance from the garrison there. If they knew the army was coming, they would take out the bridge entirely, making it impossible for them to reach the city.   
Brasidas had had a map drawn out for him of the area around Amphipolis, and he had considered it at length. There were three townships closely connected with the city which would play a part in his plans. Amphipolis formed the top point of a triangle, with the river running away from it in a southerly direction to the sea. Where the river mouth opened out, two towns had been built – Argilos to the west and Eion to the east.   
Argilos, he had been assured, would secede as soon as he arrived. It was an Andrian colony, closely allied with Arnai and the sister settlements of Akanthos and Stagirus. It was from contacts in this colony that he’d cultivated a group of conspirators inside Amphipolis who were already working to persuade the people to secede and, when the time came, to open the gates and admit Brasidas’ army.  
Eion, while of less importance in the first stages of this campaign, would still be a problem that would need to be dealt with in its turn. For one thing, it had a position at the river mouth which could be used to impede Spartan access to the city; additionally, there was an Athenian garrison there, and Brasidas was aware that he would have limited time to gain the city before help would be sent for – probably to Athenian held Thasos which was nearby – and they would almost certainly seize and reinforce Eion.   
Ideally, of course, Brasidas’ army would capture the city swiftly and move immediately on to Eion; but he had to be realistic. He didn’t think that he would have such an easy time with Amphipolis that he’d get there before the Athenian reinforcements.  
‘We will have to think about Eion,’ he said aloud, his voice sounding tired even to his own ears.  
Adimantos looked at him. For a moment Brasidas saw that he was bracing himself to say something; but when he raised an enquiring brow, his second in command appeared to change his mind, and looked away. ‘Perhaps you should get some rest, General. I will see these men finish up.’  
Brasidas considered this, then nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully, resting a hand on his arm a moment. ‘I will.’  
As he went away towards his tent, he sighed. He was already exhausted, his mind having given him no peace: The details of the conspiracy; the details of the campaign; worries about what was still to be done; the possible issues they might encounter; the usual gripes and troubles of an army to be dealt with; the myriad of decisions to be made; and over and above all that, the constant thrum of concern about Alexios and where he was...  
He stretched out under the bearskin, a gift from Alexios and the one item of luxury he allowed himself. He closed his eyes, and for once, Morpheus was kind.

He had to admit he was surprised when the initial stages went according to plan. The army had reached Argilos on the second night out from Arnai, and the town had immediately seceded. There was no time for celebration though, not yet. As soon as the details had been agreed, a select group of men from Argilos had escorted the army to the place where the bridge to Amphipolis leapt off from one river bank towards the other. The city could be seen in the distance – a smattering of lights in the thick blackness of the night and the constantly falling snow.  
Brasidas had given his orders in advance, and Adimantos with a vanguard of five hundred men went forward and took the garrison and the bridge. Then it had been the work of a few hours to secure the farmlands that lay outside the city; annexed, as it were, to Argilos.  
That's when the plan ground to a halt: The gates did not open. 

Brasidas had requisitioned a farmhouse as his headquarters. The single storey building had a good clear view of the city gates which he glanced at now and then hopefully as a discussion about what they might do to add pressure to the city was going on with Adimantos and the unit commanders. He saw the scout approaching, trotting behind a guard.  
‘Philokrates – what news?’ he asked as soon as he stepped over the threshold.  
‘General. The Athenian governor of Amphipolis, Eucles, has succeeded in getting a messenger out of the city to Eion, where we observed him boarding a fast cutter and sailing away towards Thasos. No doubt sending for reinforcements.’   
Brasidas sighed. ‘No doubt. Remind me. What’s the name of the Athenian General on Thasos, and what do we know about him?’  
Philokrates said, ‘He’s called Thucydides, sir. He has control of the gold mines in the north, and consequently, he has great influence in the city and the finances to raise a private army.’  
‘How many men does he command?’  
‘We don’t know, sir, though he has seven ships.’  
Brasidas pursed his lips. ‘How long will it take him to reach Eion?’   
‘They will be here by tomorrow afternoon, I would think. It’s a half day sail.’  
This was quicker than he’d hoped, and he cursed himself for not having checked in advance. A reinforced Eion would mean a much more stubborn resistance to secession in the city. He had to act immediately.   
After a moment’s thought, he gestured to a herald who was waiting. The boy stepped forward, and Brasidas said, ‘Have a proclamation issued in the city. Anyone who wishes to stay in Amphipolis under Spartan terms may keep all their property, even the Athenian citizens. I will offer fair and equal rights to anyone who accepts this offer. Anyone who wishes to leave may do so unhindered, and can take their goods, but they must be outside the city within five days. If the people agree to our terms, we will allow the hostages to partake of these terms, too.’  
There was a stunned silence from the unit commanders. It was Adimantos who said tentatively, ‘Do you not think you’re being too lenient, General?’  
Brasidas said with a half-smile, ‘If you want to attract bees, you need wine not vinegar.’ As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. It was a saying he’d found appealing when Alexios had said it one night when they’d been talking about Alexios’ sour brother, Stentor, but he had never used it. It was a phrase that smacked of Athens.  
Adimantos frowned. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’   
Brasidas hastily explained, ‘We need the city to open the gates before they are certain of Athenian support – that means, today. If we offer harsh terms, they will never do it in time. We haven’t the men or equipment for a siege, particularly not with the Athenians en route, soon to be at our backs in uncertain numbers.’  
Adimantos nodded slowly, but he was still frowning thoughtfully at him.   
Brasidas sent the herald on his way, then said to the rest of the men in the room, ‘You can all go, but have your men stay on alert. Philokrates, have your men keep a watch on Eion and report to us as soon as you have any estimate of incoming numbers.’  
Even as the unit commanders left, the hoplites who he recognised as those in charge of provisioning, were waiting to come in with the next problem.   
Adimantos paused at the door, and turning back, said, 'A General's work is never done.'  
Brasidas grinned and waved him off. 'It'll be your place one day - then you'll see it's no joking matter.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> I know that Amphipolis exists in the game and all, but… well. I’m still freestyling with the map here. I started out writing this story thinking that the map was not great in the game, but as I’ve gone on, I think ‘not great’ can be upgraded to ‘quite bad.’   
> I hope that I have explained the reality of the place clearly enough. The ‘Digital Atlas of the Roman Empire’ has been invaluable when it comes to understanding what the heck Thucydides was talking about in his text – the places, the distances, the geography etc. etc.  
> As per usual, all details come from Thucydides who, as Philokrates obligingly announced, is soon to be personally involved in the history he so brilliantly wrote and which I am so indebted to.


	25. Out of the Darkness

424BC  
Winter

Brasidas slept, wrapped in his bear fur on the floor of the requisitioned farmhouse; and not long after the middle of the night, he woke. He’d been dreaming of a night long before, the first time that he and Alexios had slept together in Sparta. It hadn’t been a sexual dream; it was the warmth and intimacy that he had recalled, and it sat in his chest now with a dull glow of remembered happiness.  
For a long moment, the dream seemed to linger: He thought he could feel Alexios’ warmth against his back; then his scent - smoke, leather and musk; then he heard the slow, deep breathing...  
‘Alexios?’ he said softly, wondering if he was still dreaming, rolling onto his back.  
Stretched out beside him, the misthios was in fact asleep. In the dim light Brasidas could see the sharp masculine lines of his face in repose, and the new, dark smudges under his eyes. Some kind of outlandish barbarian armour lined with wolf fur was visible from beneath the ragged blanket he was wrapped in.  
He didn’t stir, and Brasidas didn’t try to wake him. He looked at him a moment longer, letting the relief that he felt wash over himself, the love and pleasure just at his presence; then he stood, taking the lamp with him. After the first flush of joy, a concern had risen in him – had the guards seen him come in? He strapped up his shoes before stepping out into the thick cold outside to see who was on duty, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Outside, a large fire was burning in the shelter of a small annex to the farmhouse. He expected to see two guards there, but instead Adimantos was staring into the fire, his hands held out to warm them. When he heard Brasidas approaching, he looked up, and Brasidas caught a strangely soft look fleeting across his face, as though he had caught just the tail end of a tender thought, or a fond memory.  
‘Missing home?’ he asked with a slight smile.  
Adimantos half shrugged. ‘Something like that,’ he said, looking back into the fire. ‘Alexios is sleeping?’  
Ah, he thought. So he had been noticed coming in. Brasidas nodded, watchful. ‘When did he arrive?’  
‘During the last watch.’ He had a slight frown on his face. ‘He sent the guards back to their tents, which woke me.’ Adimantos was finely attuned to the sounds of the camp – when men should be coming and going, when they shouldn’t, when something was out of place or wrong somehow. It was almost a sixth sense which Brasidas had come to value very highly. Adimantos continued, ‘I came to speak with him. It was me who sent him in to sleep, though he tried to object.’ He looked at Brasidas briefly as he said this, before looking back at the fire.  
He found his mouth going dry at the subtext of that; but he said calmly, ‘How did he seem?’  
Adimantos considered the question. ‘Exhausted,’ he said quietly, with concern in his voice. ‘Haunted.’ He looked up again, meeting and holding his eye this time as he said, ‘He will need comfort, I think.’  
Brasidas shifted foot to foot, his neck flushing. He began, ‘Adimantos…’  
His second in command shook his head solemnly. ‘Don’t explain, General. I’ve known for a long time.’  
The heat had reached his face. ‘You have?’  
Adimantos almost smiled then, the slightest quirk at the corner of his handsome face. ‘Since before Korinthia.’ He saw Brasidas’ horrified expression and the shadow of a smile resolved itself into a real one. ‘Did you really think you were that good at hiding it?’  
Brasidas was taken aback by his comfortable manner. In the version of reality he lived in, he’d expected anger or disgust; he ought to be apologising and then packing his things to go back to Sparta in shame. The tenor of the conversation threw him completely. He floundered for words.  
‘I have not let it affect my work…’  
Adimantos confirmed that with a shake of the head. ‘No – you have not.’  
Brasidas moved closer to the fire and held out his hands as he asked softly, ‘Does everyone know?’  
He considered that. ‘Yes, probably.’ Seeing Brasidas’ expression at that, he added more gently, ‘They none of them care, General. We follow you out of respect and loyalty; and we’re all in awe of him. Why should we despise either of you? The laws?’ He shook his head lightly. ‘Most of these men are not Spartans – and I can tell you that the ones who are couldn’t care less.’  
Brasidas was silent then, staring into the fire. He felt – well, there were no words for that yet. The idea that everyone knew, and no one cared, was such a shock that he could barely think at all.  
The initial numbness, a kind of horror at being exposed, soon passed, and was followed swiftly by the sweet release from worry, freedom from the fear of being caught. That relief - sweet, pure relief - immediately sparked to life something else, something warm and glowing in the pit of his stomach. He could not name it, did not want to, but he did not try to stop the feeling. He let it overflow and rush through himself.  
It was love - love finally set free.  
After a short silence, filled only with the popping of the wood on the fire, Adimantos suddenly said, ‘Alexios came in on a horse that you should see.’  
Brasidas tilted his head and frowned a little, though he appreciated the change of subject. ‘I’m not especially interested in horses, Adimantos, you know that.’  
There was a strange quality to his voice as he said, ‘Believe me, sir – you want to see this one. It’s not like any horse that I ever saw before.’ He sounded awestruck, Brasidas realised.  
‘Where is it?’  
‘The stable near the silos.’  
He nodded, and turned away; but he paused for a moment. ‘Thank you, Adimantos.’  
His second in command smiled then. Perhaps it was only a trick of the shifting heat above the fire that made it seem like there was sadness in his expression, for he said in his usual voice, ‘Of course, General.’  
As Brasidas stepped out of the shelter of the house, the snow was deep enough to sink in up to his ankles. It was no longer falling though. The sky was clear. The city in the near distance was lit with a myriad of tiny points of warm, yellow light. He could see the guards passing along the wall carrying torches, making their slow rounds.  
When he came in sight of the stables and the horse, if it could be called that, he slowed, approaching cautiously. It was taller than any horse he had ever seen, its coat so black it disappeared into the darkness of the night, while its eyes were like two coals glowing in beds of ash.  
He stared at it for a long moment, and the horse stared back at him with almost palpable hostility.  
Brasidas gave a shudder and turned back.  
He returned to the farmhouse, and Adimantos asked, ‘What do you think?’  
Brasidas shook his head slowly. ‘I think only Alexios would dare ride such a horse.’ He could have added that it had no doubt come from the very depths of Hades, but he didn’t. Adimantos had no doubt figured that out for himself.

Alexios was still asleep when he stepped back inside, so Brasidas sat at the table with his back to the sleeping misthios, and set to work reading a small stack of skytales which had reached him the day before and he had not yet had time to read in more than the most cursory fashion. They came from the scouts he’d sent out into the countryside around Amphipolis to gather intelligence on which communities were likely to secede if Amphipolis was won.  
It looked hopeful, according to the scouts. There were at least three towns, Myrcinus, Galepsos and Oesyme who had stopped just short of promising to secede, even without victory at Amphipolis being assured.  
A warm, rough hand on his neck was the first he knew of Alexios being awake, and he set down what he was reading, turning to look up at him. Alexios dropped his head to kiss him long and lingeringly, the hand still gently caressing his nape, the other cupping his cheek. For a long moment, there was only this – the warmth of reunion, the tenderness inherent in their love for each other.  
When Alexios broke the kiss, Brasidas stood, and for a long moment, they rested their foreheads together.  
Brasidas closed his eyes, and breathed deeply of his scent and nearness. ‘I missed you,’ he said softly.  
Alexios murmured something inarticulate, then stepped back from him, taking his hand and leading him towards the bearskin. Brasidas allowed himself to be led, and sank down onto the soft fur, revelling in the feeling of Alexios’ hands on his skin; the breath that tickled his neck; the lips, sweet and tender… He was heady with desire, his mind groggy with want, but still one part of himself held back, sensing that there was something in Alexios’ intensity that was foreign somehow, not like himself.  
‘Alexios,’ Brasidas said, his voice thick with desire, but a frown of worry between his brows.  
‘I need you,’ Alexios said softly, tenderly running a thumb over the crease of his frown, kissing his lips, his other hand freely caressing the strong muscles of his thigh. ‘I need you.’  
Brasidas could barely think, his whole body thrumming with pleasure, but somehow he managed to say, ‘Wait… wait… What do you mean?’  
Alexios, his breathing ragged, said against his mouth, ‘Remind me I’m alive, Brasidas. Remind me we’re both alive.’  
The words once spoken seemed to do something to Alexios: he crumpled alarmingly onto Brasidas’ shoulder, his eyes squeezed closed.  
Brasidas was taken aback, at a loss as to what to do; out of pure instinct, he began stroking the back of Alexios’ head with one hand, mumbling something intended to be comforting, though it wasn’t even really words, just soft sounds. After a moment, he took Alexios’ chin in his hand, gently tilting his face upwards, saying, ‘Look at me.’ Alexios looked exhausted; the dark smudges more pronounced now than they had looked while he was sleeping; his eyes were swimming with unshed tears. Brasidas said with overflowing tenderness, ‘You’re home. You’re safe.’ The tears threaded down the misthios’ cheeks; he kissed him gently, lovingly, tasting salt.  
For a time, they just laid together like that, Brasidas simply holding Alexios against himself, kissing the top of his head, stroking his skin, comforting him with his nearness.  
When this moment had passed, Brasidas helped him undress. Together, he shucked off each layer of armour and weaponry; each layer removed increased the scent of ash, of smoke, of dusty earth. This small, everyday service drew them nearer: perhaps it was the warmth of shared memories of this act carried out at other times, happy times; perhaps it was the inherent humanity of it which brought Alexios back from wherever his mind had become lodged; or maybe it was the brush of skin against skin, the prickling of their desire for each other…  
They made love with aching tenderness. In it were the words Brasidas had been unable to say in Dium, and would never say; the words Alexios would not say that night: The promise unspoken that nothing would part them, not even death.

The following morning, the Amphipolitans opened the gates, having finally agreed to Brasidas’ terms and ejecting their Athenian governor, Eucles. After the morning meal, the army entered the city.  
The streets were busy with people who had come out to cheer their arrival. Brasidas had been assured by the inside agents that he had already won most of them over just by the terms he had offered, so unexpectedly moderate from a Spartan; but he knew he would have to tread carefully in the coming days nonetheless. 

Later in the day Philokrates came to Brasidas with the information that the fleet of ships from Thasos had been spotted off the coast of Eion. The small number of Athenian citizens had departed the city with their governor, taking their possessions with them, and later still, the scouts reported that they were almost all seeking protection in Eion, where General Thucydides was said to be organising a stiff defence.

At a meeting that night, upstairs at a house he’d requisitioned which stood just off the main square of the city, Brasidas said, ‘It’s unfortunate we could not gain the city sooner and take Eion today. It will make our task that much more difficult; but whatever the struggle, we must attempt to drive the Athenians out of Eion.’  
The room was lit by only a handful of small lamps, so he could only make out the vague shapes of the men gathered there in the near dark: Adimantos, Alexios, the unit commanders and scouts.  
He said, ‘Philokrates. How do you think we should approach this?’  
The scout’s terse voice came from the direction of the door. ‘I’d suggest a two-pronged attack by land and from the river.’  
There was a quiet but perceptible groan from the unit commanders as they realised some of them would have to man the ships.  
Brasidas said, ‘Yes… I was thinking something similar. Adimantos?’  
‘I agree. A force overland to attack the walls from the north will detract attention from the lower, weaker wall on the river side. A force attacking that way may find a way to overcome them.’  
Philokrates interjected, ‘Thucydides has already set about strengthening the riverside wall further.’  
Brasidas nodded slowly, tugging on his beard. ‘Noted… Still, it is our best opportunity.’ There was a murmur of agreement, and he continued, ‘Have the army prepared to march in the morning, Adimantos. I will leave the fine details to you, as you’ll need to lead them. The Makedonian king will arrive tomorrow.’ He tried to keep the groan out of his voice, but he didn’t quite succeed.  
Adimantos’ teeth flashed briefly in the darkness but his voice was unchanged as he said, ‘Of course General. Alexios, will you come with us?’  
Alexios was slouching against one wall at the back. ‘As if I’d let you malakas have all the fun.’  
There was a general chuckle, and as they filed out, they slapped Alexios on the shoulder, or joked with him about his becoming a true Spartan. It was only Brasidas who noticed that his voice had sounded strained.  
When they were alone, Brasidas said, ‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.’  
Alexios sighed as he took up an amphora from somewhere in the darkness, pouring out a beaker for himself and offering Brasidas one.  
‘Is it the local wine?’ he asked, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. Makedonian wine, they joked, could take the barnacles off a ship’s side.  
‘Of course not. I have some sense of taste,’ he said, humour in his voice. Brasidas relaxed a little. It was a good sign.  
They had only had a short time that morning to speak, and though Alexios had looked refreshed, there was a heaviness about him that lingered on – an absent-minded seriousness which wasn’t part of his usual self.  
Brasidas had recognised it for what it was. He’d seen other men in a similar state – men who had just survived their first battle. It was a combination of pure physical fatigue, and something else… a kind of mental adjustment to the horror of it all; the actualisation of what they had always known in the abstract: that death was ugly, bloody, disgusting, coupled with the immediate truth that it would one day be them.  
Of course, Alexios knew all that already. Brasidas could only imagine what horrors he had seen that would have the power to make such a seasoned warrior react like that; but he didn’t ask. Instead, he went to the door, closed and fastened it; then going to where Alexios was leaning, he took the misthios within the circle of his arms, and took his mouth with his.  
He couldn’t make whatever Alexios had seen or felt leave his mind forever, but he could certainly drive it out for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> All details come from Thucydides, an eye witness to some of these events. It says something for his modesty that there is no greater amount of detail lavished on his part in the war than any other; I like that about him. Though I am always keen for more details, so I wouldn’t have minded too much if he had!  
> The Spartans didn’t succeed in taking Eion that winter; the three towns mentioned in the skytales that Brasidas received did secede as soon as Amphipolis was taken (Myrcinus, Galepsos and Oesyme). Myrkinos was to the north of Amphipolis, and Galepsos was beyond Eion in the east. [Amended:]Oesyme is further east even than Galepsos.  
> Perdiccas did come and ‘help’ with the ‘settling’ of Amphipolis – whatever either of those words entailed.


	26. Perdiccas' Request

The following morning, in the darkness before dawn, Brasidas and Alexios walked through the city towards the gates of Amphipolis that opened to the south.  
‘Stay safe today,’ Brasidas said, although he had no real fears on that count.  
‘Of course,’ Alexios said lightly.  
Brasidas noted something in his voice, and narrowed his eyes. ‘Alexios… what are you planning?’  
The misthios smiled, and said in an innocent way which was entirely implausible, ‘Nothing at all. I’ll go with the army to Eion, just as Adimantos wishes.’  
Brasidas gave him a hard look, but Alexios managed to meet it with solemnity, despite the twinkle of laughter in his eyes. He shook his head, and a moment later, smiling despite himself, he said, ‘Just be careful, whatever it is.’  
Alexios grinned back then, and briefly rested his hand on Brasidas’ shoulder as they walked. ‘As always.’

It began to snow lightly as they came through the gates, into view of the army’s assembly area. They picked their way across the plain, lit with torches and busy with the comings and goings of soldiers and officers. The ground had turned to slush, thick dark-grey mud that stuck to the feet; it took care and attention not to slip.  
They sought out Adimantos so that Brasidas could make sure there were no issues, which there weren’t, before wishing him the best of luck, and going down to where the boats were clustered, borrowed from the people of Argilos. This second force was under the command of Lysistratus, a man whose origin in Olynthos, the Spartans liked to joke, did not stop him from being a well-liked and competent leader. He’d been selected to lead this portion of the army because he was in the usual course of things, when Brasidas marched with the army, the third in command, and he had been coerced into reluctantly admitting that he had some experience with the navy having served on the island of Kythera in the early years of the war.  
This was the first time he was commanding his own unit without supervision. If he was nervous, it didn’t show when Brasidas found him standing on the dock. He was overseeing the last of the men clamouring aboard the odd collection of boats, mostly small cutters or fishing vessels. It would look faintly ridiculous, Brasidas thought, an army attacking with such small craft; but war was about working with what you had.  
Lysistratus saw Brasidas and nodded a greeting. He was a naturally taciturn character, and his face reflected that. Brasidas had never known a man who looked more like a bull.  
‘Chaire, Lysistratus. All in order?’  
‘It is.’  
Brasidas nodded, looking out at the boats, then away at the first faint line of light on the horizon. ‘Philokrates suggested an alternative plan, should you be unable to take the walls. He says there’s a promontory of land beyond Eion that thrusts out into the river. He says it may be worth trying to take in order to secure the river mouth – but he has been unable to establish if it is suitable.’ He met Lysistratus’ eyes as he said, ‘I leave it to you to decide if that’s practicable once we have feet on the ground.’  
Lysistratus nodded curtly. ‘I will.’  
Brasidas nodded. ‘May Ares go with you.’  
As he watched the commander leap onto a boat, and the small fleet cast off down the river, he felt deflated. He hated to be on the sidelines, a spectator – it reminded him forcefully of Sphacteria, his feeling then of impotence.  
Perdiccas, and the demands of diplomacy, required his presence in the city though. He sighed heavily and grimaced to himself. There was nothing he wanted to do less than deal with the King of Makedonia; but just as he had trained himself to face physical discomfort, he would face this kind of discomfort too. It was all the same to him.

His irritation knew no bounds when Perdiccas did not arrive when he had said he would. He’d waited all morning impatiently at the Temple of Aesculapius to greet him, but by midday he quit waiting, and went up onto the walls of the city. There were things that he could have done instead, but with a battle underway just beyond the horizon, he could focus on nothing. He looked out towards the river mouth in the distance, wondering what was happening.

Before the end of the day, the troops returned from the south, either sailing back into port or marching in good order across the plain. Lysistratus and Adimantos came to find Brasidas as soon as the men were back in camp, the wounded had been seen to the medics, and the men who had fought that day were at rest.  
Brasidas was still on the walls, listening with an air of irritation to a herald who had come very late from the Makedonian king – at least he had bothered to send one this time, Brasidas had thought wryly.  
‘My king has been delayed in Edessa, General. You may expect him in a further one or two days.’  
Brasidas couldn’t help himself. He said waspishly, ‘Unless he is delayed once more, I suppose.’ Then he caught himself, and sighed, reminding himself that it wasn’t the messenger’s fault his king was a flake and a bad ally. He saw the two commanders approaching, and hastily said to the herald, ‘I apologise for my temper. It has been a long day. Tell Perdiccas that I will be here whenever he sees fit to visit us.’ He then dismissed him and turned to Adimantos and Lysistratus. ‘How did it go?’  
Adimantos was the first to speak. ‘The Athenians put up a strong defence. The walls are unbreachable except by a full-scale siege.’  
Brasidas turned to Lysistratus. ‘And the river mouth?’  
He shook his head. ‘Impossible. Marshy. Too close to the walls of Eion.’  
‘Just as we thought then, on both counts. Well – we have enough to do here anyway.’  
Adimantos gestured in the direction the herald had gone with one raised eyebrow. ‘Perdiccas didn’t arrive?’  
Brasidas snorted through his nose. ‘No – also, just as I expected.’  
Alexios arrived then, hoisting himself up and over the wall with a clank of armour.  
Brasidas smiled, glad to see him. ‘Have you ever considered using the gate?’  
He shrugged, a faint smile quirking his lips. ‘Never.’  
Brasidas shook his head lightly, as Adimantos asked Alexios, ‘Where did you get to today?’  
Alexios said casually, ‘I went into Eion.’  
Both Lysistratus and Adimantos looked at him in surprise, but Brasidas had guessed that might have been what he intended.  
‘What for?’ Adimantos asked, frowning deeply.  
Alexios shrugged, as though it had been an everyday social call. ‘I wanted to speak with the Athenian General. I thought I might be able to persuade him to go back to Thasos, or at least to surrender.’  
Lysistratus said gruffly, ‘You could have killed him.’  
Something crossed Alexios’ face then; there was a subtle tightening of his jaw. ‘No,’ he said, though his voice remained exactly as it had been. ‘I couldn’t have. He’s a good man, I knew him some years back, when I was in Athens. I hoped I might use that to talk him out of doing his duty – but you know what Generals are like,’ he said with a raised eyebrow at Brasidas, ‘Stubborn to a man.’  
Brasidas acknowledged the jab with a half smile, though the subject brought back a familiar feeling; the same he had had when Alexios had first mentioned he’d known Demosthenes. Had he done work for this Athenian general too? He didn’t really want to know, but at the same time, he did.  
‘How many Athenian Generals do you know personally?’ Brasidas asked, keeping his voice light.  
‘At least as many as Spartan ones, I suppose.’ Alexios eyed Adimantos and Lysistratus, waiting for questions, but none came. ‘If you have no further need of me General, I will go and wash.’  
Brasidas nodded. ‘Do as you wish – as always.’  
When he was gone, it was Lysistratus who said tersely, ‘I’m just glad he’s on our side.’  
Brasidas smiled a little. ‘As are we all.’

That night, laying in the darkness looking up at the ceiling lit by the dim light of torches outside the window, he asked Alexios, ‘What’s he like, Thucydides?’  
Alexios hadn’t been sleeping. ‘Middle aged, stout, about your own height – nothing remarkable to look at. In Athens he’s known for being bookish, but he’s got a sharp mind, quick to see the point. Wealthy.’ He thought for a moment, then more tentatively said, ‘You can ask, you know.’  
Brasidas turned his head to look at him, thought he could see little more than the outline of his profile. ‘What do you mean?’  
‘I saw the look on your face when I mentioned that I knew him.’  
Brasidas sighed. Alexios was always more observant that he would have wished. ‘I don’t ask because I don’t want to know. The past is behind us.’  
Alexios didn’t say anything for a moment, then murmured, ‘Yes, it is.’ He rolled onto his side then beneath the bear pelts – more now, because Alexios refused to live in the austerity Brasidas preferred, as he said, if it meant freezing all winter – and let out a long sigh, at the end of which he was asleep, in the way only he could fall asleep.  
For a little longer Brasidas laid awake, thinking over what he might do next. He fell asleep having decided that he should leave Eion for now. There would be other chances, after Sparta sent the reinforcements he had requested...

Perdiccas arrived two days later, coming into Amphipolis with his train of followers amid watchful, obligatory cheers from the Amphipolitans.  
Brasidas walked out to meet him from where he had been waiting in the Temple of Asclepius, having come up from the port when word had reached him that the king was almost upon them. As usual, he didn’t bother to send a herald ahead, as would be considered proper. Brasidas had begun to believe that Perdiccas simply enjoyed seeing people in a fluster.  
The king came forward and clasped Brasidas’ hands warmly, smiling – though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Congratulations are in order, General. You have proved your strength and skill where many have failed. Your success will echo down the ages, here and throughout Hellas.’  
Brasidas smiled, though he disliked the superfluity of the praise. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.  
Perdiccas looked over Brasidas’ shoulder then and gestured with one hand ‘Who is this?’  
Brasidas glanced around, and saw he meant Alexios, who was leaning nonchalantly against one of the columns of the portico behind them.  
He was certainly eye-catching, Brasidas acknowledged to himself. He was wearing the barbarian armour he’d had on the night he returned from Hades, cleaned and repaired. It was dark embossed bronze, wolf fur lined, decorated with what looked like animal bones on the pteruges. His weaponry – in particular the silver bow at his back – gleamed in the weak winter light.  
Brasidas had watched him dress that morning, trying not to show how appalling he found the ensemble; but Alexios had caught him grimacing and laughed heartily at him.  
He cleared his throat. ‘That is Alexios of Sparta.’  
Perdiccas narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘The mercenary they call the Eagle Bearer?’  
‘Formerly, yes.’ It was a lie, of course, but only a small one. ‘He marches with us now.’  
Perdiccas made no further comment, though the narrowness of his look didn’t change. He turned instead in the direction of the river. ‘I see you have the shipyards under construction already. You have not been wasting your time.’  
‘Yes. I did not wish to delay. The Athenians will come with the spring. Amphipolis will need protection, especially as Eion remains in their hands.’  
Perdiccas made a humming sound as though he was considering that. ‘Unfortunate, but with such a small force, and no siege weapons, there is nothing more to be done.’  
‘We will have some by the spring,’ he said firmly. ‘They are also under construction.’  
Perdiccas nodded, ‘Excellent. You have sent to Sparta for reinforcements, I suppose?’  
‘Yes. I await a response.’  
Perdiccas tapped his lips with one finger. ‘You will let me know as soon as you receive word, of course?’ He looked at Brasidas with one refined eyebrow raised.  
He nodded assent.  
‘In the meantime, perhaps I might have look at these shipyards?’  
Brasidas agreed to the request, and offered to show him the ground works himself, but he also steeled himself for the inevitable. As the two of them moved away towards the gate which opened out just north of the area in question, trailed only by Perdiccas’ bodyguards, the king said, ‘You know, of course, that that mercenary of yours is a liability.’  
In an attempt to put him off providing further details, he said with humour, ‘He certainly has his moments.’  
The king did not smile. Sternly, he said, ‘He is a wanted man in my kingdom, for a series of murders in the first years of the war.’  
Brasidas hadn’t known, but neither was he surprised. He considered the information for a moment. ‘What can I do to make this – notoriety – go away?’  
Perdiccas looked at him, still with that narrow look. ‘You will not send him away?’  
Brasidas slowly shook his head. ‘He’s a demi-god. Only a fool would turn away such assistance.’  
Perdiccas snorted a brief laugh. ‘I did not take you for a believer in children’s stories!’  
It was Brasidas’ turn to look at him without humour. He stopped walking, and Perdiccas also paused, sobering.  
Brasidas said, ‘It is no children’s story, I assure you.’  
Perdiccas held his gaze for a moment, then turned back towards the shipyards and recommenced walking, Brasidas coming after. He was quiet for a long moment before he said, ‘I see that you believe it, anyway.’ Then he sighed. ‘In the name of maintaining our alliance and goodwill, I will have the bounty on his head cleared if both yourself and the misthios will swear before gods and heroes to his good behaviour. No crimes must be perpetrated by him against my people – and when you leave Makedonia, he must go with you.’  
Brasidas almost grimaced at that. He would swear the oath of course, and he was fairly certain Alexios would, but he was less sure that Alexios would keep his hands clean. He had a habit of stealing, at least, that he seemed totally incapable of curbing. He nodded. ‘Very well. If that’s what you require.’  
Perdiccas nodded, the smile returning to his face – though still, not reaching his eyes. He shook his long curls and pushed them back behind his ears. ‘Excellent. Now – the shipyards.’  
They continued on, Brasidas talking through what he had planned, all the while wondering what Alexios would make of the request.

As it happened, Alexios was easy about it.  
‘You’ll take the oath?’ Brasidas asked, as he removed his greaves slowly.  
‘If that’s what you require me to do,’ he said, comfortably lounging against the wall, half dressed, a scroll of something-or-other open in his lap.  
‘Will you stop stealing?’ he asked with a raised brow.  
Alexios looked at him and laughed. ‘Of course!’  
Brasidas was cynical. ‘I mean – not even an apple. Not even one rusty blade…’  
‘Not even any unidentified hands?’ he asked, his eyes dancing with laughter. They had had this conversation many times before, and he always liked to tease Brasidas about his squeamishness.  
He grimaced at him as he cast the first greave aside, and began untying the second.  
Alexios continued, ‘Look – if a blacksmith will pay a few drachma for it, then it’s worth picking up.’  
Brasidas wanted to laugh, but he tried to remain serious. ‘I’m not getting into this again. Just promise me – no stealing – hands or otherwise.’  
He said, still smiling, ‘Alright. I promise. No stealing. Not even hands.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> Thucydides provides no real detail on what the attack on/defence of Eion looked like. All he says is, ‘Brasidas did make a sudden attempt [on Eion], sailing down the river in a fleet of boats in hopes of capturing the headland which juts out from the wall and so gaining command of the entrance to the harbour: and he tried an attack on land at the same time. He was beaten back on both fronts…’ and that’s it. Considering Thucydides was there, and he successfully beat him back, more detail would be logical; but we have what we have.  
> I know that Thucydides didn’t appear in the game in Athens, but heck, why not, when every other famous living Greek (and one notably dead one) did?


	27. An Unwelcome Visitor

423BC  
Winter

The Temple of the Dioscuri stood a short distance from the city of Torone. In the gentle light on the verge of dawn, Brasidas could just make out the fresco which ran around the interior. One image was particularly well rendered - Castor and Pollux were shown on a single rearing horse, swords held aloft.  
He walked over to the doorway and stepped out onto the narrow portico, and looked towards the walled city which stood less than a mile away and began pacing impatiently. It was built on the slope of the mountains which stretched for the length of the Sithone peninsula, the middle of the three fingers of the Makedonian hand.  
He’d been invited to Torone, which he had thought to be firmly Athenian, by a small group of oligarchs who promised they would betray the city when he arrived. They had met the army earlier, as promised, and things had been set swiftly into motion.  
The plan was simple enough. A force of twenty Chalcidians, volunteer troops who had joined the army in the preceding months, had been selected to infiltrate the city under Lysistratus’ command. Their objective was to take control of the upper part of the defences; in particular, a watchtower which dominated the city and would be impossible to take if the Athenian garrison knew they were coming. Once that had been achieved, the infiltrators would light a signal fire on the tower. When that happened, a force of one hundred soldiers under Adimantos would be allowed in at the northern gate, near the agora; while at the same time, the eastern gate would also be opened to Brasidas himself, with the bulk of his army. The intention was that this should be done without the citizens being aware, so that, by the time they realised that Brasidas’ troops were there, they would already be dispersed throughout the streets. The people would have nowhere to run, and Brasidas hoped that this would serve to make them capitulate with minimal bloodshed.  
The trouble was that for the plan to work, all the moving parts had to move at just the right moment. The upper city had to be taken before the gates were opened – and both gates needed to be opened more or less at the same time, and unnoticed. One Athenian guard in the wrong place at the wrong time would ruin everything.  
He turned his thoughts to the previous weeks to distract himself. He was conscious that he had achieved much of what he had wanted, but was equally aware there was plenty still to be done.  
The turn of the year had come and gone, and the first weeks of the new year had been spent in campaigning throughout the Acte Peninsula, trying to persuade or, where required, force the barbarian population of the towns there into alliance with Sparta. They had successfully won over Olophyxos, Thyssos, Cleonae and Achrothooe, but two towns held out against them, despite his army ravaging the land outside the walls of both – another town called Dium, and Sane.  
He would still have been there but for the herald who had arrived from Torone with an invitation that was, as the saying goes, too good to pass up. He had been led to believe the city was firmly Athenian; to take it without a siege would be to strike a real blow against the enemy.  
His army had marched out the following day, despite the frigid cold and occasional snow, and come within sight, here at the temple, in the darkness before dawn.  
He frowned to himself. There had been a strange moment when the lights of the city had come into view, a chill at his neck that had nothing to do with the cold. He’d raided hundreds of settlements of all sizes in his life. Much of his naval career had consisted of ravaging land along the coast, and the intimidation of the people in towns and cities; but there was something about this particular city which made him anxious, some warning in his bones. He’d almost called it off, but by the time they’d reached the Temple of Castor and Pollux, the plan was too far advanced to turn back without endangering the conspirators.  
Brasidas looked over to where Alexios stood, arms crossed, frowning heavily, watching for the signal fire.  
He hoped this sense of dread was only because he was tired, and the night was cold; but he felt certain that it was somehow related to the oath that Perdiccas had insisted the two of them make.  
Alexios had been easy about it, right up until Perdiccas had said that the oaths would be made to Hades. Brasidas had seen something in Alexios’ eyes then which had made him uneasy. He’d thought for a moment Alexios would retract his agreement – but, with a glance at Brasidas, he’s stepped forward and done as he'd promised.  
He went to stand beside him, and Alexios said quietly, ‘Once we’re in the city, you’ll go towards the watch tower?’  
‘Yes, with about fifty men. Lysistratus can hold his own, but just in case he needs reinforcements.’  
He nodded. ‘Then I’ll run the walls and meet you at the watchtower. There are only a few guards on on watch – it won’t take me long to deal with them.’  
Brasidas nodded, and they fell silent, waiting.

Then it happened: The signal fire flickered to life on the watchtower.  
Brasidas said calmly, though his voice was full of tension, ‘Herald – pass the word to advance. The gates should be open.’  
They advanced quickly, keeping good order. For a moment as they drew near, he thought the gates were still closed; but he was relieved that it was only a trick of the darkness and the troops were able to rush straight into the city. As soon as they were through the gates, Alexios veered away, clambering up the wall as promised, while Brasidas and his small group headed upwards along the main street of the city, hurrying towards the glowing flame at the watchtower.  
At first there was only the sound of their ragged breathing from running, the sound of their heavy steps in the thin layer of snow on the ground, the occasional curse when someone slipped; but then slowly, the sounds of conflict came to them from the distance, particularly from the direction of the agora. Adimantos and his men had made it in and were dealing with the garrison which slept there, he thought with some relief.  
A few Toronians were roused by the noises below, and stumbled out of beds and into the streets, for the most part looking dazed and frightened, staring around in consternation as they rushed past, unable to grasp what was happening. Some few had armed themselves and rushed into the streets to make a stand. They were cut down where they stood. 

After a time, they left the chaos of the lower city, moving ever upwards. Up there, there was the quiet sense of a city peacefully sleeping. Even the sounds of the distant struggle seemed muffled somehow. A cold wind blew; perhaps it was sweeping the sound away.  
They’d nearly reached the watchtower, a looming shape above them, when they met up with Lysistratus and his men.  
‘Any trouble?’ Brasidas asked, catching his breath from the uphill run.  
‘None,’ he said, though his tunic was blood spattered, so he knew that there had been some resistance.  
‘Has Alexios reached you?’  
He indicated the watchtower. ‘Up there.’  
Brasidas frowned. He thought it odd that the misthios hadn’t come down with the others, but said, ‘Fan out along the streets here. I’ll be back in a moment.’  
He ran to a ladder which stood against the wall and clambered up. The sun was even then tilting the world into daytime, and the signal fire was only beginning to die down to embers, but the tower was still in gloom. Brasidas vaguely registered how odd it was as he stepped over the bodies of dead Athenian guards, moving towards the doorway into the tower.  
As he approached it, he saw that Alexios was speaking with someone inside. The stranger had his back to Brasidas; but as he drew nearer, his scalp prickled, and he knew… there was a glow emanating from him, the light somehow contained within his person, so that the area around him remained dim.  
Brasidas knew in his bones this was a god. He knew in his bones this was Hades.  
Despite the feeling of terror that surged through him, he stepped around him and went to stand beside Alexios, who was scowling savagely.  
In a voice as smooth as oil, Hades said, ‘Ah. Brasidas of Sparta. I wondered when I’d meet you.’  
The prickling in his scalp only intensified. ‘Hades, I suppose?’ he said coolly, somehow sounding certain of himself.  
Hades opened his mouth to speak, but Alexios interrupted. ‘Hades was just leaving.’  
A smile turned up the corner of his mouth. ‘Was I?’ He held Brasidas’ eye as he said, ‘Very well. I’ll go; but I’ll see you soon, General Brasidas of Sparta.’  
He was gone. The place seemed to lighten in a way Brasidas couldn’t explain when he thought about it later.  
‘What was that about?’ Brasidas asked, his stomach churning, but still managing to sound businesslike.  
‘He came to fuck with me,’ Alexios said, sounding irritated but otherwise his normal self. ‘Is the city taken?’  
Brasidas nodded. ‘Yes. The men are waiting for us below.’  
‘Good,’ he said, heading towards the ladder.  
Brasidas was close behind him. The words that Hades had spoken were jangling in his head, but… he did not want to think about that now.

The city was taken, but the majority of the Athenian troops and those friendly to them had escaped to nearby Fort Lecythus, either fleeing on foot, or on two ships which the garrison had wisely had standing by at the port.  
Lecythus was, in Brasidas’ opinion, a poor excuse for a fort. It was a promontory that was separated from the city by a narrow isthmus of land, and that isthmus had had a wooden palisade built across it, which had been constructed with timber, with a handful of old buildings built into its fabric.  
He ordered his men to let those civilians who wanted to leave Torone pass unmolested. Then he had a herald issue the same proclamation he’d made as at Amphipolis; though at the urging of his allies, he demanded that the Athenian citizens leave Lecythus because this was Chalcidian territory. He stopped short at making them leave their possessions, though. There were dissatisfied murmurs in the command tent, but Brasidas wouldn’t budge.  
The Athenians, confident in their fortified position, rejected his terms, but they requested a one-day truce to collect their dead. Brasidas granted them two; not from any generosity on his part, but because it gave him the time he needed to prepare his own strategy.

The night after they took Torone, Brasidas was in his tent, leaning over the table with a rough plan of the geography of Lecythus, drawn up by Philokrates, spread out before him, trying to decide how best to take the fort. He was so absorbed in his planning, he didn’t hear the misthios enter.  
‘Brasidas?’  
Absently, he said, ‘Mmm?’ He was still staring at the map, lost in thought.  
‘About today…’  
Brasidas raised an eyebrow as he looked up. ‘Hades?’ he asked, with difficulty bringing his thoughts back from the future. For a moment, he allowed himself to remember that cold, prickling moment when he’d met the god’s eye. The memory was unpleasantly visceral. He wanted to forget it had ever happened.  
‘Yes.’ Alexios said tentatively. ‘About Hades.’  
Brasidas tugged at his beard, looking down at the table again, evading Alexios’ eye. ‘I knew you’d been to the underworld. I knew that Hades must exist. Now I have seen him.’  
He watched him closely, always observant. ‘Yes, but I wanted to say that you shouldn’t take what he said too seriously.’  
Brasidas looked at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Don’t take the god of the underworld seriously?’  
He acknowledged that he had misspoken with a gesture, and amended, ‘I mean, just because he said he’d see you soon, doesn’t mean...’  
Brasidas interrupted him in a firm voice. ‘It doesn’t matter if I am. It doesn’t change anything. I have a job to do, and I’ll keep doing it until...’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever end is coming for me.’ He meant what he said. He’d walked away from the tower that morning feeling as though an icy hand had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart with that word, ‘soon’, but it had only been for a moment. Death was always looming for a Spartan on active service, he’d reminded himself. Why should it worry him that it was going to be soon? He changed the direction of the conversation. ‘What did he want with you?’  
‘He came because of the oath we made in Amphipolis.’ Alexios sighed and added, ‘I knew he would. I knew he’d want to gloat over it.’  
Brasidas found himself smiling. Perhaps it was the intensity of all that had happened to him that day, but the idea of Alexios making an oath to a god that he knew personally, and who would want to rub it in his face had never struck him before. It was so ridiculous, it was amusing. ‘Then the people of Makedonia really are safe from your light fingers?’  
Alexios eyed him, irritated by the truth of what he said, but glad to see him smiling. ‘Yes. Hades made some oaths of his own, concerning what he had in store for me if I stepped out of line.’  
‘Good,’ Brasidas said, turning back to his map, the smile lingering. ‘I’m glad the gods take these things as seriously as men. Now, if you don’t mind…’ He waved a hand over the map.  
Alexios smiled and said, ‘Alright. I’ll be outside if you need me.’  
Brasidas didn’t answer. He was already absorbed in his work again.

On the first day after the truce expired, Brasidas’ army was ready to attack. They had created their own fortifications in a handful of buildings that were within striking distance of the palisade of Lecythus. Even so, they were unsuccessful in their attempt to break into the fort. 

On the second day before dawn, Brasidas went down to the place where the army was assembling, an open space facing the isthmus of Lecythus. He took his position in the front row of the phalanx.  
Antidas, who had a position to Brasidas’ left, said quietly, ‘I heard that you’re offering a bounty to whoever enters Lecythus first, General?’  
Brasidas turned his head a little to see who was speaking, and smiled. ‘Good news travels fast.'  
‘I hope it will be me,’ Antidas said, ‘For Sparta.’  
The man next to him grunted. ‘You’ll have to beat me to it. For Korinthia.’  
The wave of ‘For Sicyon!’ ‘For Olynthos!’ ‘For Arnai!’ and so on swept along the ranks. Brasidas smiled to himself.  
The siege catapult was being constructed in the midst of the army, and as the sun rose, the shape of it emerged out of the darkness. It had been built in the city during the truce, and due to its weight, it had to be dismantled to move it into position. As Brasidas had ordered, it was being built in front of a large building which had a central position in the palisade.  
Adimantos came to stand with him, and said, ‘There’s a shift in the energy over there. Have you noticed the tower they’ve built?’  
Brasidas nodded quietly. ‘I see it. They’re fools. They think to snuff out any fire from the catapult with water from the tower, I expect; but if there’s anyone on that tower when we begin firing, they will burn along with the building…’  
It was as though his words triggered something in the ether. There was a loud sound, not immediately identifiable; and then, as if in a dream, they watched incredulously as the tower tilted. Men could be seen leaping from it, jumping to their deaths. For a moment, it seemed to totter before, with another crunch, it completely collapsed outwards, towards the waiting army, taking a part of the building with it, and ripping the wall outwards, like a door opening in welcome.  
‘What the…’ Adimantos exclaimed, but before he could finish speaking, Brasidas shouted, ‘Herald! Sound the advance!’

There was a short burst of fighting as Brasidas’ army rushed through the fort. Every Athenian who hadn’t been killed in the collapse of the tower, or reached the ships which slipped away over the water to Pallene in the east, were slaughtered to a man. After what felt like mere seconds, a roar of victory began, and was picked up throughout the fort.  
Brasidas stopped when he heard it, and for a moment listened. He had just despatched a man, the body slumped before him. He pulled his spear from the body, grounding it beside himself. Blood slowly dripped from the point down the shaft, onto the skin of his hand.  
For the briefest of moments, he closed his eyes, surprised to discover he felt relief. Despite all his strong words to himself and Alexios, he had expected to die.  
He could hardly believe he wasn’t dead yet.  
As the thought crossed him mind, the now familiar chill brushed the back of his neck, and he opened his eyes, looking around sharply. There was no one to be seen, barring Adimantos and the few soldiers who had been fighting beside him, and who were now clapping one another on the shoulder.  
Adimantos saw him look in their direction, and came to congratulate him on another victory with a grin; but as he drew closer, the smile faded. ‘Is everything alright, General? You don’t look well.’  
The question snapped him out of it. He said woodenly, ‘Thank you, Adimantos. I’m fine.’ To avoid meeting his eye, he took out an old rag to wipe the blood from his hand and spear.  
Adimantos frowned a little, but in a businesslike voice asked, ‘Shall I ask around, find out who made it over the wall first?’  
He shook his head. ‘Pass the word that we will dedicate the gold to Athena at her sanctuary here. She was surely the first to breach the wall today.’  
‘And the fortifications here? What are your orders?’  
‘Have the area cleared. We will add the area to the sanctuary.’  
Adimantos tilted his head a little. This was a greater offering than he had ever made before, and Brasidas could see a question forming; but Adimantos didn't ask. Instead, he said, ‘Of course, General.’  
Brasidas watched him walking away, sighing. He promised himself he would talk to his second in command about everything soon, if nothing else to prepare him for the moment when he would take over his position - but not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Brasidas campaigned all winter – which is unusual. The Acte Peninsula is the eastern finger of the three fingers of Makedonia. His campaigning there was successful but Thucydides provides no details – thus I have glossed it. I think it’s enough to note that he had not stopped campaigning since he’d arrived. He was a man very much on a mission.  
> All details of the taking of Torone also come from Thucydides.  
> My retelling of how the city was taken is only one possible timeline of events. I have here and there made changes to the way in which Thucydides tells it, because actually, it doesn’t always make a lot of sense if we take it literally as a step-by-step of what happened; but I doubt that it was intended that way anyway.  
> I should point out that the Chalcidian volunteers are to an extent my own invention. It’s clear that there were Chalcidians in Brasidas’ army (Lysistratus was one, being from Olynthos, which was near Potidaea) but no indication is given at this point of numbers (or whether they were volunteers – that’s a modern idea, truth be told). He’d started off with 1700 hoplites from the Peloponnese, but who knows how many had perished in various skirmishes and raiding, or how many were provided by Perdiccas and the allies. Your guess is as good as mine.  
> Basically, as I have explained it above, it was a two-pronged attack, Brasidas’ men coming in two gates, after a small force had already infiltrated the city and taken out the guards in the upper city; but, as always, some things remain unclear in Thucydides’ narrative:  
> If the Athenian garrison was in fact sleeping at the agora as he says, then how did they not hear a) the gate being broken down/opened and b) the one hundred peltasts entering the gate? (In my retelling, these men were under Adimantos, but their leader is unknown, historically speaking.)  
> What purpose was served by the gaining of the upper city by the seven men under Lysistratus? (Unlike Adimantos, he was historically real.) Was there some kind of watch tower there? A garrison? It remains entirely unclear. What about the guards on the walls? Were there any?  
> This is just a selection of the questions which remain :-)  
> The details of the bounty on the one to breach the wall being dedicated to Athena, along with the land that had been Lecythus, is a true story.


	28. The Liberator of Hellas, Crowned.

Early Spring  
423BC

Night was advancing as Brasidas and Alexios went down to the harbour of Torone. They walked quickly, not speaking. Brasidas felt furtive; perhaps that was why the sounds of the night came to him as though they were muffled: the sounds of the city behind them; the wind sighing through a pair of cypress trees which stood near the gates; the water slapping against the ships as their timbers creaked; the murmured conversations of the sailors.  
They were waiting for him. The captain of the trireme nodded to Brasidas as he passed, and he nodded back, but went aboard a small cutter instead, which was tied further along the jetty.  
Across the water, he could see the distant blinking lights on Pallene. He knew that, just out of sight, lay their destination, the city of Scione. Earlier in the day, Athenian ships had been seen patrolling the bay; there was no way to know if they were still out there, so he’d planned this journey with caution.  
As the ships cast off - the trireme first then the cutter following - the wind was cold in his face, making his eyes water. He looked at Alexios, who was standing beside him, his face looking especially chiselled in the warm light of a swinging lamp above, emphasising the shadows of his face.  
He noticed Brasidas looking at him and the corner of his mouth tilted. ‘How many times will this be now?’ he asked.  
Brasidas returned the half smile. ‘Akanthos, Amphipolis, Torone, now Scione…’  
Alexios was quiet for a moment before he said, ‘You have your speech ready?’ He said it with a hint of humour in his voice. He’d mentioned to Brasidas that he’d heard people saying that he was a good speech maker, for a Spartan. Alexios had gently teased him about it since, calling him the orator.  
Brasidas shook his head with a wry smile. ‘As ready as it will ever be.’  
Alexios smiled, but it faded as he looked ahead at the lights of their destination. ‘They seemed certain, didn’t they?’  
Brasidas knew he was referring to the ambassadors from Scione who had come to Torone a couple of days earlier to tell Brasidas that the city wished to defect.  
‘I have no doubt that they are certain,’ he said quietly.  
Alexios had been present when the herald sent by the conspirators met with Brasidas, and Brasidas had been amused when he’d proven to be even warier than he was himself. Afterwards, Alexios had suggested it might be a trap, set in motion by those who had fled Torone to Pallene, and who must harbour a burning resentment for the Spartan General.  
The discussion had gone on for some time, but in the end, Alexios had acknowledged that Brasidas was the expert on the subject. The following morning, though, he’d insisted he would go with Brasidas to Scione.  
Not that Brasidas had tried to stop him. He’d succeeded for the most part in pushing away the grim foreboding Hades’ words had triggered, though there were still odd, irritating moments when he was certain that the god was watching him. When he did think about it, his thoughts were always the same: He’d always known his death was coming; he’d always been honourable and made his offerings to the gods as he should; he was ready for Thanatos when his thread was cut. There was simply nothing else he could do.  
Yet, for all that, he felt a strong sense of relief at Alexios’ protective presence which he didn’t interrogate too closely.

In the darkness before dawn, the Spartan ships reached the harbour at Scione. As had been arranged, the armed men in the trireme remained aboard while Brasidas, with only Alexios as his bodyguard, went ashore.  
Brasidas was unable to see much of the slumbering city in the dark, besides the looming shape of the akropolis rising above and, much nearer, the city walls. He could see that the seaward gate stood open, and above, guards stood looking out to the sea in the south, either actually oblivious, or more likely paid to be oblivious, to what was going on at the docks below.  
From the darkness of a warehouse nearby, a stout man came out to meet them. He introduced himself as Eumenes. He warmly clasped hands with Brasidas as he said, ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’  
‘There’s only you?’ Brasidas asked warily, glancing at Alexios, who tensed a little.  
He looked surprised by the question. ‘No, it’s only that we didn’t want to make a fuss before the meeting of the assembly. If you’ll come with me, we have a place near the bouleuterion we can wait. The others are there.’ Brasidas nodded, and they went together down a small back street, unevenly paved and muddy. Eumenes continued in his hushed voice, ‘The people will meet just after dawn. I’ll present you to them then.’  
Brasidas asked quietly, ‘How much dissent to you anticipate? The herald was very optimistic.’  
Eumenes shrugged lightly. ‘Perhaps a few men may still have reservations, but they’ll be won over, almost certainly.’  
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Brasidas murmured, half to himself. 

Early in the morning, before the sun had had a chance to burn away the dew, Brasidas was presented to the people of Scione.  
He was getting used to making speeches, at least. This one was the same in many ways to those he had made at Akanthos and the other cities he’d won over with his charm since then; but for the first time, there was a definite air of festivity in the room, and he could see why the herald had been so optimistic. The men cheered at every point he made as though they were watching a competition at the games.  
They were so enthusiastic, that when he reached the point when he would ordinarily have concluded with the question about how they wished to be remembered, he said instead, ‘I have to say to you, men of Scione, I am struck by your boldness in choosing to seize your freedom when you have the chance, with all the difficulties that must lay before you. You are virtually islanders, and still you have acted with more bravery than those who have much less cause to fear.’  
There was a roar of approval from the assembly, and he paused, waiting for them to quiet again. He looked up and around at the crowd, feeling the level of energy in the room reaching a kind of crescendo. In that moment, for the briefest instant, he understood why people became demagogues. He declared, ‘I swear, before the gods and heroes of Sparta, that you will be given the same honours as the greatest of Sparta’s allies for this courageous decision.’  
The room erupted with cheers, and Brasidas couldn’t see a single doubtful face as the mass of the people rushed down to the speaker’s floor, jostling to clasp hands with him and show their support.  
It took some time before Eumenes succeeded in calling the men to order, and then he held up his hands as he looked at Brasidas with a grin. ‘On behalf of the people of Scione, Brasidas of Sparta, Liberator of Hellas, we honour you above all others!’  
Brasidas smiled, uncertain as always what to do with superfluous praise; but before he could say anything, Eumenes gestured to the doorway, and a young boy carrying a wooden box came shoving through the press of supporters towards them.  
Brasidas looked at Eumenes in question, but he just smiled; he would have been unable to speak for the noise of voices even if he had meant to.  
When the boy arrived, red faced and with a grouchy look on his face, Eumenes opened the box.  
Brasidas flushed, seeing what was inside it; but he could do nothing as Eumenes took the intricately constructed golden crown, ribbons hanging down from it on both sides, and placed it upon his head. A roar of cheering went up all around them.  
Brasidas was more stunned than anything. He hadn’t anticipated this, and Eumenes had given him no hint of what he intended to do. He did his best to smile through it, keeping cool, as though this was something which happened to him every day; but there was a sharp contrast in his mind’s eye – the commendation in Sparta all those years ago had been nothing like this. He wasn’t sure what he thought of the contrast. That was something to think about later.  
He forced himself to smile as they guided him out into the street, where the young men, women and children of the city had gathered in impatient groups. Seeing him wearing the crown, there was more cheering, more congratulations; everyone came forward to grasp his hands or offer their congratulations, even the women.  
He couldn’t have said how long this went on for, and afterwards, he would only remember them as a river of faces – all except one face, a particularly fine woman - tall, dark haired, with solemn eyes, despite her warm smile. For a moment, Brasidas was could only look at her; his heart gave a double beat as she bowed her head, murmured congratulations that were too quiet for him to hear in the roar of voices, then she slipped back into the crowd. When she was gone, he felt colour in his cheeks, and looked over at Alexios, hoping that he had not noticed his reaction to the woman.  
Alexios was not looking at him though, but was looking after the retreating woman with a strangely haunted expression on his’ face; but then he glanced at Brasidas, and the look disappeared, his face softening, replaced with a wry, warm smile.  
Brasidas smiled back before returning his attention to the crowd, making a mental note that he would have to ask Alexios what that look had meant when they had a quiet moment.

The celebration went on the for the remainder of the day and on into the night. A feast was laid out, there was music and dancing; more food was brought out as the evening settled in.  
Brasidas at last was allowed to retire for the evening by his hosts, and he went unsteadily upstairs and then pushed the door closed behind himself. He was more than a little drunk, having found his cup refilled many times without his having been aware of it. He had intended to return to Torone that night, but diplomacy had made him stay. Diplomacy, and the wine.  
He threw off his tunic and flopped down onto the pallet there, feeling the world spinning around him.  
He dozed for a little while. He didn’t hear Alexios came in through the window, but woke only when he became aware that there was a light in the room.  
Alexios was in bed beside him, his legs crooked up, back against the wall. He saw Brasidas wake, and looked down at him with a smile playing on his lips.  
‘Did our general take too much wine?’  
Brasidas tried to sit up, but his stomach was uneasy and he groaned a little. He remained where he was. ‘Perhaps.’  
Alexios shook his head. After a moment, he asked, ‘Is it always like this?’ Meaning, Brasidas supposed, the joyous reception.  
‘No,’ Brasidas said. ‘It’s never been like this.’  
Alexios was looking thoughtfully at the opposite wall. ‘It reminds me of winning the wreath at the Olympics; but compared to what you’ve had to do to achieve the same reward, the Olympics are nothing at all.’  
Brasidas smiled, charmed by the unusual humility of this remark. ‘Now you see why Archidemos was appalled when Pausanias wanted you to win the wreath, as though it was the same as winning Boeotia to our side.’  
They were quiet for a time, Alexios running his hand gently back and forth along Brasidas’ collarbone. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warm, loving touch, when he suddenly remembered the woman.  
He opened his eyes and, struggling to sit up, he began, ‘That woman...’ Then he stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, his stomach objecting to his change of position.  
Alexios sighed. ‘I wondered if you were going to ask.’  
‘You know her?’  
He shook his head, ‘No, she just looks like someone I used to know. For a moment I thought it was her.’ There was sadness in his voice. ‘Her name’s Daphne. She was a Daughter of Artemis – probably still is. We were… close for a time, but things didn’t end well. When I saw that woman, well…’ he trailed off for a long moment before he said softly, ‘She brought it all back, and I find myself wondering what it might have been like, if things had gone differently.’  
Brasidas frowned. ‘What happened?’  
Alexios sounded nostalgic. ‘She believed that Artemis had sent me to her to fight to the death for the leadership of the Daughters. When I refused, she threatened to kill me if she ever saw me again.’ He put his arm around Brasidas’ shoulder and rested his head on his. Taking Brasidas’ left hand in his right, he said, in a sudden change of direction, ‘Tell me about your wife - Zoe, I mean.’  
Brasidas probably would have said no had he been sober; but he wasn’t, and he found himself saying softly, ‘She was pretty, intelligent, even tempered. She was always welcoming to me.’  
Alexios had stilled, listening intently, using his left hand to trace the curving scar which ran from the base of Brasidas’ pointer finger to his wrist. The touch was comforting, encouraging.  
He found he was glad to talk about her, now that he had started, even though he was supposed to have forgotten about her when he married Stamatia. ‘Whenever I was in Sparta, each morning she would be up before I was, overseeing the helots, ensuring that the house was run in good order. She’d greet me when I came downstairs and always saw me off at the door to training or assembly. When I came home from the mess each night, we’d talk; about whatever it was that had happened to bother me that day, and she would offer suggestions, which were always useful; or she’d tell me about what she had been doing, the trouble she had with the other women, usually because we had no children. They made her feel like she wasn’t a suitable wife for me… worse, she sometimes told me that she felt as though she wasn’t even a valid woman.’ He sighed and closed his eyes. ‘They bothered me too, about divorcing her, but I never would have. She was too good a woman to be put aside.’ He paused before continuing, ‘We were – not what we were supposed to be.’  
‘What do you mean?’ Alexios asked.  
He thought about it for a long moment before saying tentatively, ‘A Spartan marriage is supposed to be… merely functional. Neither party should be attached to the other, but... we weren’t like that. I felt guilty about that.’  
Alexios said gently, ‘You shouldn’t feel guilty because you loved your wife. What could be more natural?’  
With a touch of bitterness in his voice, he said, ‘In Sparta? Literally anything other than that.’  
There was a long silence then as they remained as they were, leaning against one another, hands held gently, each lost in their own thoughts, their own ideas of what their lives might have been, what they had been instead, and what form they may yet take.  
Alexios broke the silence. ‘Do you miss it? Sparta?’  
‘Oh,’ Brasidas said thoughtfully. He disengaged his hands from Alexios’ and sat up, reaching for a pitcher of water beside the bed. He poured a cup and drank, offered it to Alexios, and then said, ‘Sometimes. Mostly my parents. But Sparta itself? That’s another matter.’ He put the cup down and sighed. ‘I don’t know if this will make sense to you, but I miss the Sparta I knew as a young man, after I left the agoge, before the war. I knew everyone, Zoe was with me, life was just… easier then.’ He sighed again. ‘Sometimes I wish that version of Sparta still existed to go back to. Somewhere along the way, it all just – disappeared.’  
Alexios tilted his head slightly. ‘With the death of Zoe?’  
He considered the question. He’d not really thought about when this nostalgic vision of Sparta had faded for him. Perhaps it had been during their marriage, when he had had to defend them both against those who pushed them to divorce; or perhaps it had really begun with the death of Diphridas, and how that had been handled. He wasn’t really sure now.  
He shrugged and said honestly, ‘I don’t know.’  
Brasidas couldn’t guess how he got there, but Alexios said quietly, ‘I’ve complicated things for you, haven’t I? If it hadn’t been for me…’  
Brasidas interrupted him in a firm voice, reaching out a hand to grasp his chin gently, holding his gaze. ‘I didn’t tell you any of this so that you could feel sorry for yourself, Alexios. You asked about Sparta – and with Sparta, it’s complicated.’ He kissed him before saying, ‘I chose this path, just as you did. We will both walk it with courage.’  
Alexios held his eye for a little longer, as though ensuring he was telling the truth; then he kissed him back.

Brasidas was in Torone two days later when a trireme arrived bearing two ambassadors – one from Sparta, a man named Athenaeus, and one from Athens, named Aristonymus. Brasidas went with Adimantos and Alexios down to meet them at the city gates on a fresh bright morning. Spring was finally making a showing.  
Aristonymus took the lead, squaring up to Brasidas in a pugnacious, confrontational way. For an ambassador, Brasidas thought, he was none too good at taking a diplomatic approach.  
‘Brasidas of Sparta,’ he said formally, taking out a tablet. ‘We come with the important news that a treaty has been agreed between Sparta and Athens. It will endure for one year, during which time, negotiations will be carried forth between our states in an attempt to hasten the end of the war. In consequence, you are required to desist from military activity at once. Recall your troops currently on active service and return them to land already under agreement with Sparta, and receive no further defectors to the Spartan cause...’  
Brasidas was gobsmacked. He looked at Alexios, then at Adimantos. They were both stony-faced, and Adimantos, at least, looked angry. Brasidas looked back at the Athenian as he commenced reading the terms of the treaty, which were typically long winded and convoluted.  
When Aristonymus finished reading, Athenaeus asked Brasidas, ‘Is there anything we should be aware of?’  
Brasidas looked at Adimantos, and reluctantly said, ‘Only that I accepted the defection of Scione only two days past.’  
Aristonymus’ face grew red. He said stiffly, ‘Then you will have to return it to Athenian control. The treaty was agreed four days since.’  
Brasidas felt his own face growing hot, but before he could speak, Athenaeus said coolly, ‘Let’s go inside where we can discuss this privately.’  
Brasidas was going to object, but thought better of it. He said that Alexios and Adimantos should go round up the unit commanders for a meeting, then he led the two ambassadors to the house he had requisitioned, setting a cracking pace which he was pleased to see the Athenian struggled to match.  
In the large downstairs room with a table at its centre, he hardly waited for the door to be closed before he said curtly, ‘You ask the impossible. Scione was not forced into her defection. She came to me of her own free will. I cannot make her return to Athens.’  
Aristonymus snapped, ‘You have no choice. The treaty predates their defection, and unequivocally demands that Sparta should by no means acquire further holdings after that date.’  
Brasidas wanted to snap back, but there was something in Athenaeus’ face which made him reign in his temper. The Spartan ambassador said, ‘Aristonymus; might we have a moment, please?’  
The Athenian scowled. ‘Make him see sense,’ he said tersely as he stalked out of the room.  
‘You can’t be fucking serious,’ Brasidas said once he was gone. ‘We’re on the brink of breaking Athenian control throughout Makedonia once and for all. If we stop now, we only provide Athens with the ability to reinforce and strengthen. We have them at last!’  
Athenaeus said, ‘The kings know that, but the assembly is determined. The prisoners taken at the island…’  
Brasidas interrupted, sounding bitter. ‘What about them? We give up the advantage which I have finally brought about so the captives in Athens can come home. For what? So we can shame them once they’re back. They will never be of use to the army. We give up an advantage for no advantage at all!’  
‘Look,’ the ambassador said. ‘You and I both know that that’s how it will play out, but the Gerousia is more worried about the morale of the army remaining as low as it has since Athens started holding those prisoners over our heads…’  
Brasidas scoffed. ‘The members of the Gerousia are being swayed by pressure from their rich relatives, not by concern for Sparta.’  
Athenaeus sighed. ‘That may be true, Brasidas, but the treaty has already been made. You have to bring your men back from Scione.’  
He shook his head, feeling resentful. ‘Athens will march into that city and kill the people as traitors.’ With heavy emphasis, he added, ‘and we will be oath-breakers.’  
Athenaeus said quietly, ‘It’s out of my hands, and it’s out of yours.’  
Brasidas straightened, tucked his hands behind his back, and said in a voice under tight control, ‘Then tell your Athenian friend I will have no hand in returning the city to Athens. A garrison will be left in place at their request. They may negotiate it with Sparta directly.’ Athenaeus was going to argue, but Brasidas interrupted him before he could. ‘Don’t bother. My decision is final.’  
The ambassador held his hands up and said, ‘Alright, alright. Just think about it overnight, I urge you.’  
After he was gone, Brasidas, his jaw set, paced back and for the angrily. He couldn’t believe that Sparta had rolled over so easily. He knew he would never give up Scione as easily as Sparta had given up on his mission. If Athens wanted the city, they would have to come and take it.

More than a week passed after the ambassadors had gone away again before a herald came with news from Sparta.  
Antidas showed the herald into the downstairs room of the requisitioned house. ‘A herald, general.’  
Brasidas waved a hand to dismiss Antidas, but otherwise ignored the herald. Instead he turned to Adimantos, and said, ‘You should be able to base yourself in Mende, with Polydamidas in Scione – or vice-versa.’  
Alexios interjected, ‘I can go with them, if needs be?’  
‘No,’ Brasidas said glancing at the misthios, ‘I need you with me in the west.’  
The herald cleared his throat.  
Brasidas looked at him in irritation, raking him with a sharp look. He was a young man in a tatty red tunic who, Brasidas couldn’t help noticing, was in need of a good wash.  
‘What is your news?’ he demanded peremptorily.  
‘General Brasidas. King Agis sends his greetings. He wishes you to know that Aristonymus has reported your refusal to return Scione to Athenian control to Athens. Sparta has sent heralds to that city, backing your arguments, arguing rightly that if Athens acts against you or Scione, they will be in breach of the treaty. They offered to have the matter taken to arbitration.’  
Brasidas glanced at Adimantos, who was listening in silence. He met Brasidas’ look and shook his head with disbelief.  
The herald continued, ‘Athens made it clear that we could go to Hades. It is well known that Cleon has been granted an army to bring north with the intention of retaking Scione. The Athenians, of course, say that Sparta, and specifically you, are the ones in breach of the treaty. They have declared that only military action is acceptable.’  
Brasidas asked the herald if that was all, and when he said that it was, he said coolly, ‘You should return to Sparta with all possible speed, and tell them that Mende defected to Sparta this morning, and I accepted their defection as it was made in full knowledge of the treaty.’  
The herald stared at him for a long moment, blinking. With a tremor in his voice, he said, ‘What?’  
‘Tell the kings,’ Brasidas said more slowly, ‘That the city of Mende on the Pallene peninsula defected this morning, in full awareness of the treaty, and I have accepted their defection, as it is clear that Athens, as always, has no intention of honouring their treaty.’  
The herald looked horrified, but he knew better than to argue. He nodded, and hurried from the room.  
Brasidas turned to Adimantos, saying curtly, ‘You should go tonight. I want to know as soon as the women and children are evacuated.’  
Adimantos nodded once. ‘Consider it done, General.’  
He turned to leave, but Brasidas said more gently, ‘Be careful, Adimantos. If the situation becomes dire, then you should retreat to Scione, leaving Mende – but only if you have to.’  
Adimantos looked at him, some sad and soft emotion crossing his face for the briefest of moments before he looked away, at Alexios. He nodded to the misthios and then went out the door.  
When he was gone, Alexios looked at Brasidas with a raised brow.  
‘What?’ Brasidas asked, frowning.  
Alexios just shook his head, and came over to the map on the table. He looked down, considering the lay of the land for a moment, and then said, ‘I hope you’re ready for this.’  
Brasidas sighed. He had been hardening himself, defying everyone. Only Alexios had seen - he had allowed only him to see - the struggle he felt.  
‘I’m only doing what is right for Scione and Mende.’  
Alexios nodded, kissed his forehead, and then went towards the door.  
‘Where are you going?’  
‘I want a word with Adimantos before he sails, and you have work to do.’  
Brasidas waved a hand in acknowledgement, and went back to his map.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> Confusingly, Pallene is a peninsula, but it is often treated and spoken about by Thucydides and the Athenians more broadly as an island. It is the western finger of Makedonia, and has a narrow isthmus connecting it to the mainland where Potidaea is located. In a way, it becomes an island in the coming chapters, as Potidaea remains in Athenian hands, effectively cutting Scione and Mende off from the mainland – and any assistance from Sparta’s land army.  
> The defection of Scione and the diplomatic mess it made is a true story. Historically, the city did defect two days before the ambassadors arrived with the news of the treaty, and, as Thucydides doesn’t hesitate to say, despite Brasidas’, and later Sparta’s, arguments to the contrary, they were wrong. The town should have been returned to Athens whether it wanted to go or not.  
> The fact that Brasidas then accepted the defection of Mende quite honestly seems like a big fat fuck you to Athens (in my opinion).  
> Cleon’s demand that the Scioneans should be executed once their city was captured has strong echoes of his pushing to annihilate the people of Mytilene earlier in the war. Whether this is a fair representation of Cleon is contentious, as it’s suggested that Thucydides hated Cleon – but as I’m following Thucydides version of events, I am going with it. Just worth noting that there is a possible bias going on with the source material where he is concerned :)  
> The speech Brasidas makes in Scione is reported in Thucydides, though not in direct speech.  
> Polydamidas was a real person, and it was he (not Adimantos, who wasn't real) who led the defence forces of Mende and Scione.


	29. Broken Alliances

Summer  
423BC

Two days after Adimantos and Polydamidas had taken their forces to Mende and Scione, a messenger arrived and was brought in to see Brasidas. He was in the downstairs room of the requisitioned house, and he was just finishing up a meeting with the unit commanders. Now that the bulk of his army were on official stand down, the meetings were less frequent, but there were always small things to be dealt with.   
He had just dismissed everyone, and took up a cup of wine, when Antidas hustled the young man into the room.  
Brasidas asked the messenger, ‘Where have you come from?’   
‘General Brasidas. I bring a message from Edessa, and King Perdiccas.’  
Gods, Brasidas thought, sighing inwardly, that was just what he wanted. He kept a carefully neutral face though, and said, ‘Please tell it.’  
‘The king wishes you to know that he is happy to hear of the treaty between Athens and Sparta, and naturally, he and all his allies accept Sparta’s decision.’  
Naturally indeed, Brasidas thought cynically; but he said, ‘Yes – confirmation had already reached me of that from the Chalcidians.’   
The messenger bowed his head in acknowledgement before he continued, ‘He also wishes to ask that you attend him in Edessa with your army, as soon as is practicable.’  
Brasidas pursed his lips. ‘Interesting. Why?’  
‘A matter has arisen with King Arrhabaeus which my king asks I assure you will be settled quickly with the assistance of your advice and the manpower you will provide.’  
Brasidas could have exclaimed with irritation, but he said coolly, ‘Your king knows that Arrhabaeus and Sparta are allies.’  
The messenger shook his head. ‘I am to tell you that, though the news may not have reached you yet, the alliance is broken. My King advises you, if you are not willing to accept his word, to send a messenger to the Lynkestrians. You will find that they have ceased to consider the agreement made between you as binding and will not receive your heralds.’  
Brasidas paced back and forth a couple of times. It was true he’d had limited contact with the Lynkestrian king since they had made peace months earlier, but nothing had occurred to make the relationship sour. He couldn’t help it – he was struck with suspicion towards Perdiccas. The Makedonian king had been so determined to have his fight with his neighbours, and had been so disgruntled by Brasidas’ forming peace between them, that it was too much to expect he hadn’t had some hand in driving Arrhabaeus from the agreement.   
He stopped pacing, resting his hands on the edge of the table, and said, ‘Tell your king I will send emissaries to Arrhabaeus, out of diplomatic propriety. Assuming what he says is true, and he turns away my heralds, then I’ll join Perdiccas in Edessa before the new moon.’  
The messenger bowed his head, and Antidas showed him out.  
Brasidas frowned savagely as soon as the door had closed behind him. He downed his cup of wine and then refilled it.  
The last few days had been difficult, and he realised that this was, in part, because he’d vaguely been hoping that the treaty might allow him some rest, at least until Athens reached Scione; but that was not to be.   
Everything else about the treaty with Athens worried him. For one thing, it was ill-timed, just as he was really striking at the heart of the Athenian empire and the cities were defecting almost more quickly than he could keep up with; for another thing, with the order to cease military action, it opened the north up to Athenian reinforcements and planning, and Brasidas felt personally responsible for the cities who’d come over to him as allies in good faith. There was an enormous burden in being the face of Sparta here. It was he who’d stood in front of those city assemblies and promised them protection; he who’d promised them freedom and autonomy. He couldn’t just walk away, leaving them to their fate which, if Cleon was as bad as he was rumoured to be, would mean enslavement and slaughter.   
Yet he realised that if Sparta chose to withdraw, he would have no choice but to go.   
He fell to brooding again, as he’d been doing for days now. He was questioning what was right; not so much whether what he had personally done was right and honourable, because he knew that it was – but what Sparta decided was another matter. Would they hold out for reasonable terms for these new allies, if they agreed an end to the war with Athens? The wish to get back the prisoners taken at Sphacteria had already been used to justify accepting any terms that Athens offered. The order to return Scione and Mende was a glaring example, even though he’d been relieved to hear that Sparta had supported his claims so far, and resisted the pressure to do so – at least where Scione was concerned.   
He sighed, and walked to the window which looked out onto a busy street. Perhaps he’d just been away from the city for too long, he thought. Perhaps he would feel differently if he were in those streets, faced with the misery of the families with their men in Athens – but he doubted it.   
He’d been unable to talk about any of this since Alexios had taken himself off the same day that Adimantos had left. He’d said he had a matter to take care of west of Amphipolis, something to do with his sister, Deimos. He’d been sparing with the details, and Brasidas, trusting him, hadn’t pressed for any.   
He hadn’t been surprised about Alexios’ reticence. He’d been evasive about this sister ever since he and Brasidas had reunited in Korinth. He’d told Brasidas only that they’d met in combat on the Island, and she’d later come to speak with him at the prison in Athens about their messy family history, but no more than that.  
He sighed again, and turned away from the window, putting the beaker of wine down. He decided that he’d be better off going down to the training grounds than loitering here, drinking wine and thinking over everything again. It would only frustrate him.

Brasidas entered the audience chamber in Edessa feeling slightly resentful; but as he approached the place where the king sat, he was struck by the look on Perdiccas’ face which was unmistakeably hostile. For a moment, he considered his words, but Perdiccas didn’t give him a chance to say anything, and without preamble, addressed him in a cold voice.   
‘So, did Arrhabaeus receive your heralds?’  
Brasidas almost said, Ah! as he realised why the king was angry with him.   
‘No – they were turned away at the pass with the message that we should bring an army or leave the north, just as you said they would.’  
Perdiccas stood and delicately tucked his hair behind his ears. ‘Yet you would not just take my word for it. I shouldn’t be surprised. You Spartans were never ones to take advice – too convinced of your own superiority. Why would you listen to a king in his own kingdom?’  
Brasidas frowned and said tersely. ‘Diplomacy demanded I at least try...’  
Perdiccas glared at him, and he stopped speaking. He wanted to say that if the king hadn’t anticipated that he would try to at least contact Arrhabaeus, who had given him no cause to break the alliance, before attacking him openly, then he had just proved what Brasidas already knew to be true – he had no comprehension of diplomacy – but he held his tongue, not wanting to make the situation more tense than it already was. Instead, he turned the conversation sharply away from the subject.   
‘I’m here now. What’s your plan?’  
Perdiccas pretended not to hear him for a moment, brushing at some imagined fluff on his clothing, but then he seemed to decide that he’d accept the redirection. He almost smiled, though it was a sinister smile. ‘We march for the pass into Lynkestria in the morning. I’ve arranged for an army of fifteen hundred Illyrian mercenaries to meet us there. With our combined force, we will face them on their own land and prevail.’ Half to himself, gloating in advance, he said, ‘Arrhabaeus will bend the knee at last.’  
Brasidas did a quick calculation. An army of four thousand, plus the mercenaries, would be formidable. He said crisply, ‘My men will be ready to march at first light.’  
‘See that they are,’ Perdiccas said, ‘You may go.’  
Brasidas hated being treated like a helot; but he metaphorically bit his tongue. Curtly, he said, ‘Before I do, there is another matter which I must insist I have your agreement on.’  
Perdiccas raised an eyebrow. ‘What is it?’  
‘A small contingent of my men are in position to defend our allies at Mende and Scione. We have received word that an Athenian army is on its way north as we speak. As a firm ally, I have agreed to assist you in your campaign, but I must insist that once we have gained Lynkestria and your army is entrenched, I must take my forces to Pallene.’  
Perdiccas gave him a long look, his face unreadable. At last, he said, ‘We’ll discuss this further when we’ve taken the field in Lynkestria. In the meantime, I will consider your request. It is reasonable… assuming that things go well.’  
Brasidas was irritated by this half answer. He felt almost certain that what he meant to say was that he would demand Brasidas remain for as long as he wished, irrespective of what went on at Pallene; but Brasidas knew he would get nothing more from him by saying so. He thanked him as graciously as he could manage and was dismissed again.   
As he left the audience chamber, he thought grimly that things were not looking good for future diplomatic relations between Sparta and Makedonia. If Perdiccas thought he could keep Brasidas in Lynkestria while Mende and Scione were destroyed by Athens, along with his men, he had another thing coming. He would leave the field without his permission if it came to that, diplomacy be damned. 

The pass into Lynkestria ran between two high hills, and when the army had passed through to the Lynkestrian side, the land opened out into a wide, flat plain of shrivelled grasses, baking in the summer heat, between two mountain ranges which ran away north to south.   
Brasidas’ army went ahead as vanguard, while Perdiccas came with his larger force of Makedonian troops behind. They’d delayed for a day at the pass because the mercenaries weren’t there; but Perdiccas had sent Brasidas word via a herald that they should continue onwards, in the belief that the mercenaries would come after them.   
Just as Brasidas’ army emerged onto the plain and the unit commanders were at work getting the men into formation, Philokrates, who’d been scouting ahead, came to Brasidas with the information that Arrhabaeus’ army had already marched out and were waiting for them.  
‘As you’d expect, they’ve seized the high ground - the hill there,’ he said, pointing to a small eminence on the eastern side of the plain. ‘There’s another hill nearby. If we occupy that, then we’ll be able to negate their advantage.’  
Brasidas pondered this for a moment, wondering briefly whether he should he wait for instructions from Perdiccas, but decided against this almost immediately. Any delay would only serve to give Arrhabaeus’ forces time to realise their mistake. He said to Philokrates, ‘Go to Perdiccas with this information, and advise him that we have gone forward to claim the opposing hill.’  
He barked at the herald to sound the order, and they started forward at a quick march. They were soon overtaken by the Makedonian cavalry though, who went cantering by towards the hill, whooping in excitement. Brasidas felt relieved that Perdiccas’ resentment towards him hadn’t stopped him from acting in the best interests of their cause; that was something, at least.

From the top of the hill, Brasidas and his men stood in formation. He was in the front row, and so in the beginning of the cavalry battle, he had a good view of the plain below; but the horses had soon kicked up so much dust that it obscured the view almost entirely. Every now and then, a breath of breeze cleared the haze enough to allow him a glimpse of the action, and occasionally a small group of men would come thundering out of the dust, and then dash back in again – but if they were making headway overall, Brasidas could not say.  
Around mid-morning, something unexpected happened – enemy soldiers began to appear out of the dust. For a long moment, Brasidas just stared, uncertain what to make of it. Had they been fighting in amongst the cavalry all this time – and what madness was that - sending infantry into a cavalry battle? Or had they abandoned their position on the opposing hill?   
‘Antidas,’ he said, to the young soldier who was almost always beside him in the phalanx these days, ‘Does it look like the infantry are coming towards us in large number to you?’  
The thin, young man squinted into the dust. ‘I think so General.’ He pointed and said, ‘Look, there’s more of them forming up to the north.’  
Brasidas saw that Antidas was right. He shook his head, and muttered, ‘What are they doing?’  
Antidas grinned, and said, ‘Bad practice, that’s for sure.’  
Brasidas glanced at him in amusement, envying him his enthusiasm, then looked again at the field below. He could scarcely credit the Lynkestrians with such a bad decision - but it was clear that they had in fact marched across the plain and intended to attack the Greeks and Makedonians uphill.  
They watched the enemy advance towards the hill. The man to Brasidas’ right, his stringy, intense, second-in-command Euclides, muttered, ‘I’ve fought goats in better order.’  
‘Barbarians!’ Antidas chortled, still grinning like a maniac. ‘We’re in for some fun now!’  
Brasidas waved to the herald, and he sounded for the peltasts to attack. They began a barrage onto the approaching enemy, taking down many as they scrambled up the hill. As the enemy drew closer, Brasidas gestured again, and the light armed troops desisted, as the phalanx’s advance began.   
They moved carefully down the hill, silent but for the aulos played to keep them in order. While they were not quite running, because although it was possible to advance at the run, it meant that the lines became less compact, and more open to breaking – they still approached with enough speed and force to stop the Lynkestrian advance which the pelting had not achieved. The enemy saw them coming, and formed up hastily into loose lines, bracing themselves.  
The two sides met with an indescribable noise; a combination of screaming as men died, skewered by the long spears of the Spartans, and a kind of thumping, grating sound of metal again metal as shield met with shield in an intense scrum, each side pushing forward - against the enemy, if they were in the front ranks, or against the man in front if they were in one of the several ranks behind.   
The air filled with sound, and the scent of mud and death. In his position in the front rank, Brasidas worked in perfect concert with the men to his left and right – Antidas and Eucles. He couldn’t see what was going on ahead, as such; he experienced only the rush of adrenaline, the dimming of the world beyond this single present moment, the physical exertion itself: pushing shield to shield, dodging strikes, making strikes, shuffling forward…   
Despite his blindness to the battlefield at large, had his line been failing, he’d have known. There was a strange consciousness that embraced a man in battle, a kind on knowing what was going on with the men around him, both beside and behind, that meant any shift in the mass of the phalanx would be felt by him. That was why the unit worked so well – they each became, in the heat of battle, a limb of an animal with hundreds of limbs but only one set of senses; like a herd of wild animals who reacted as one when a predator attacked. 

He couldn’t tell how long they’d been fighting, but he was growing tired. He glanced up at the sky to check the time when the Lynkestrian line finally broke. With a shout in their own language, the enemy who were still able to do so turned and retreated, back towards the hill they’d abandoned, ceding the field, and the victory, to Perdiccas.

That night, Brasidas took Eucles and went to speak with Perdiccas at his camp. Due to the size of their armies, the Makedonian king’s tent was a long way off, on the other side of the plain from the hill, where Brasidas had made his encampment.  
‘Congratulations for today,’ Brasidas said when they were shown into the presence of the king. He was determined to be as pleasant as possible. ‘Your men fought bravely today.’   
Perdiccas eyed him as he said, ‘Of course. Now we must talk about what action we should take when the mercenaries arrive. I believe we should push further into Lynkestria and ravage the land. The fields are ready for harvest. They will come over to us quickly.’  
Brasidas narrowed his eyes slightly, but still politely, said, ‘With all due respect, as I mentioned back in Edessa, you now have the plain in your possession. The bulk of Arrhabaeus’ army has been killed. I must insist that I be allowed to return with my army to re-join my men on Pallene.’  
Perdiccas made a face that Brasidas could only consider unbearably insulting. ‘Oh, you insist, do you? I gave no promises that permission would be granted; and until the mercenaries arrive, I will not give it.’  
Despite his intentions to remain calm, he scowled and said flatly. ‘Let me be clear: I do insist. The mercenaries cannot be more than a day or two away by your own admission. I have pressing matters that demand my attention. I will go.’  
Perdiccas’ face had grown red. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’  
‘How dare I!’ Brasidas burst out, but Eucles shot a hand out, grasping his forearm, reminding him of himself. He took a couple of short, sharp breaths before he gained control of himself again and said, ‘Forgive my temper. I made it clear to you from the outset that we are fighting together as allies; I am not fighting for you; we are not an army for hire. Until now, I have done what I can to keep the peace, but…’   
He was interrupted by an uproar outside the tent. Scowling, Perdiccas didn’t wait to hear what else he might say, but pushed past him, out into the open space outside. Brasidas followed, scowling angrily but still curious to know what the ruckus was about.   
In the flickering light of the torches, he saw that a man had been taken captive, and he was being brought to the king. He was shouting and kicking out at the men who dragged him between them, but he had no hope of breaking their hold. They reached Perdiccas and threw the prisoner to the ground.  
‘What’s this all about?’ Perdiccas demanded indignantly of the two men who had brought the man there.  
‘He’s an Illyrian,’ one of the men said, sounding angry. ‘We found him snooping on the edge of the camp, and when he saw us, he tried to run away.’   
The Illyrian, for his part, looked up at the king, his brow lowered, and spat in Perdiccas’ direction. Brasidas uncharitably wished it had hit him, as vulgar as that was. Perdiccas deserved no less.  
‘What have you to say for yourself?’ the king demanded. ‘I can see that you’re a mercenary. Have you come from the men I sent for?’  
The Illyrian just glowered up at him, and the soldier kicked him, demanding he answer the question.  
The man curled up and clutched at his ribs. For a long moment could say nothing; then at last he wheezed out, in very poor Greek, ‘They aren’t coming.’  
Perdiccas frowned, ‘What do you mean?’  
‘I mean,’ hissed the man on the ground, ‘That Arrhabaeus has paid us double. You’re on your own, except for him.’ He gestured at Brasidas insultingly.  
Perdiccas curled his lip. ‘You’re lying!’ but as close as he was, Brasidas could see that the man was being honest, and Perdiccas knew it. Perhaps the bravado was for the sake of the Makedonians who were watching, and who were listening closely to the conversation, shifting uneasily. Brasidas knew what they must be thinking: The Illyrians were to be feared. If they’d changed sides, then the advantage would be much in Arrhabaeus’ favour.  
‘Admit that you’re lying!’ Perdiccas shouted, striking the man across the face with his own hand. ‘Say it!’  
Brasidas looked at Eucles, and gestured with his head, indicating that they should slip away. Eucles nodded, and without anyone noticing they’d gone, they walked back towards their camp.  
‘What are we going to do?’ Eucles asked as they walked away.  
Brasidas shook his head grimly. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow, with or without his permission.’

Brasidas was shaken roughly from sleep by Alexios, though it took him a moment to recognise him with the red paint he had striped across his face.  
‘You’re back,’ he said, sitting up in surprise. ‘When did you…’  
‘There’s no time,’ Alexios said tersely, though as he said it, he did gently brush his hand down the side of Brasidas’ face. ‘You have to get up. The Makedonians are gone.’   
‘What!’ He stood, and seeing as he hadn’t bothered taking off his armour the night before, he stepped straight outside into the first light of dawn and hurried to the side of the hill that faced the plain. He could see immediately that he was right. There was every sign of a camp abandoned: campfires smouldering, a few tents left in situ, and even a wagon or two fully loaded, but no movement at all, no horses grazing nearby - nothing. The Makedonian army was gone.   
‘Malaka!’ Brasidas exclaimed.  
Alexios said, ‘I came through the pass during the night, and I passed hundreds of men on the road – Makedonians, all of them hurrying back towards Makedonia. I thought there had been a defeat, and so I came as swiftly as I could.’  
Antidas approached them then, a worried frown on his face. ‘Sir. The Lynkestrians are forming up to the north.’  
They followed him to the watch post at the edge of the camp where there was a clear view to the north. In the gentle morning light, they could see the army formed up below, perhaps already preparing to advance. Arrhabaeus had scented his advantage and was ready to seize it. From the yelling and shouting which carried on the light breeze up to the Spartan encampment it was clear that the Illyrians had indeed changes sides.  
Eucles had been roused and joined them, his face red with the exertion of running across camp. he looked down at the assembled army, his face hardening. ‘What are your orders, General?’   
Brasidas had grown very still. His hands tucked behind his back, he rocked back slightly on his heels, as though the small movement would help him think more clearly. The three men watched him closely, waiting.  
‘We must retreat. Antidas, have the herald sound the order to break camp,’ he said crisply, turning sharply on his heel. ‘Eucles, you will lead the main body of the army. Go and choose the youngest, fastest men for special detail; choose another three hundred to come with me as rear-guard.’  
‘You don’t intend to…’ Eucles stopped speaking when Brasidas levelled a cool look at him. He immediately said, ‘Of course, sir,’ and hurried away.  
Alexios followed Brasidas as he strode back towards his tent. He said, ‘I will stay with you.’  
‘No,’ Brasidas said crisply. ‘You must go back to the pass as quickly as you can. They will attempt to cut us off there, and if we are caught inside these mountains, it will be a slaughter. You must hold the pass.’ They’d reached the tent in which Brasidas had slept, and he stopped, turning to face Alexios. ‘You can do it, before you tell me otherwise.’  
Alexios gave a shadow of a smile. ‘I know I can.’ Then, gently, he said, ‘Be safe, Brasidas. Don’t be reckless. I’ll see you on the other side.’  
‘May Ares go with you,’ Brasidas said, and for the barest moment, he allowed his face to soften. They clasped hands and rested their foreheads against one another’s for a moment, exchanged a few murmured words of love, then it was time to step apart. Alexios strode away, shoulders squared, and Brasidas hurried to gather his few possessions before going to the place where his handpicked men were assembling.

Brasidas nodded to the herald who sounded the retreat.  
On the hilltop, he had the bulk of his hoplites form up into a compact square, in the centre of which he placed his light armed troops and the young, fast men who Eucles had hand-picked for their speed. Brasidas himself joined the three hundred that made up the rear-guard, protecting the backs of the retreating men. They’d already formed up into their ranks, facing the enemy army which, Brasidas saw, had begun advancing towards them.  
He said confidently to Antidas who was, as usual, by his side in the phalanx, ‘Just watch them take the bait.’  
It didn’t take long; they saw the moment when Arrhabaeus’ forces realised the field was being abandoned. The Illyrians charged, in poor order and full of ill-founded confidence, coming towards Brasidas and his three hundred picked soldiers as though they intended to sweep through them.   
Antidas grinned, looking at Brasidas, as they braced themselves. ‘Seems they think we’re already beaten, sir.’  
Brasidas grinned back, the adrenaline of the approaching fight burning through his veins. ‘And that will be their downfall.’  
The Illyrian line broke against the rear-guard with a crunch of metal and shrieking, and in what could only be described as obvious surprise. The battle was short and fierce, and went entirely in the Greeks’ favour, and afterwards, the Illyrians withdrew a little, having lost a large number of men, and being joined by the Lynkestrians, who had come up behind them.  
Brasidas wiped the sweat, which was the colour of the earth, from his eyes. He could see that they were intent on trying a different tactic.   
‘They’ll try the main body now,’ he said. ‘You watch.’  
The combined forces broke into smaller groups, and circling around the main body of the Greeks, they attacked the army from the sides. These attacks were dealt with swiftly by the young men who had been chosen by Eucles. As the Illyrians attacked, the ranks split to allow these swift, well-trained men to run out, spears at the ready, and break each attack as it came.

So it was that, as the day progressed, in between fighting off attacks the army made its slow way across the plain moving south, and eventually the enemy drew back towards the north, leaving only small groups of cavalry to harry the rear-guard.  
During a spell of unhindered marching, Antidas, every observant, said, ‘Sir, do you see them?’ He pointed to a group of men on horses at some distance, riding hard towards the south, and the pass out of Lynkestria. ‘They intend to block the pass.’  
Brasidas nodded, and said with some satisfaction, ‘They will come up against something they aren’t expecting when they get there.’  
Antidas grinned. ‘Ah! I wondered where he’d gone.’  
Brasidas just glanced at him with a smile, then kept moving.

As afternoon drew down, they began passing the bodies of Makedonians who had been slaughtered by the men who had run ahead to block the pass; then they came in clear view of the hills to either side of the pass. Brasidas could see enemies on the hill to the east; to the right, the western hill, there was no one immediately obvious; but as they drew nearer, there were some figures moving near the top of the hill.   
Brasidas called to the herald, ‘Sound quick advance in loose formation.’  
In open order they crossed the small distance between themselves and the hill, and climbed swiftly to the top; so swiftly that the few barbarians who were there never saw them coming.  
Alexios was standing, surrounded by dead bodies, grinning. He was covered in blood, but looked untouched.  
‘You took your time,’ he said to Brasidas, his eyes gleaming as he tucked his speak away.  
‘Looks like you hardly needed us,’ Brasidas said, grinning back.  
Antidas interrupted them, calling out, ‘General, it looks like the enemy have turned back.’  
Brasidas went to join the young soldier, looking down on the plain below. The remainder of his army was approaching the pass, and Antidas was right – the enemy had withdrawn. Even the men who had held the other hill were retreating back the way they’d come, clearly having realised that they could not hold the hill against the whole Greek army.  
‘Let’s get out of here then,’ Brasidas said, patting Antidas on the shoulder as he turned to the men who were waiting for their orders.  
‘Back down to re-join the main army,’ he called. ‘Best not get complacent.’  
His caution proved unnecessary. The Lynkestrians and their Illyrian allies did not attack again, and the Greek army arrived safely in Arnisa the same day, within Perdiccas’ kingdom; exhausted, and very angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> Thucydides provides no explanation for why things had gone awry between Brasidas and Arrhabaeus. It is assumed by Hammond [who wrote the notes of the copy of Thucydides’ “Peloponnesian War” which I am using] that this is just Brasidas ignoring his agreements and marching against an ally. While I have to acknowledge that this might be the case, I just don’t think so… considering his behaviour up until this point had been honourable to the point of defying Athens and the treaty. Blaming Perdiccas and accusing him of (essentially) espionage to create the division is my invention; there could have been any number of causes, along with Hammond’s interpretation.  
> Men behaving from petty motivations is actually a huge theme in Thucydides’ narrative, and Perdiccas was particularly inclined to act that way as he tells it. It’s worth noting that this is quite possibly another of Thucydides’ biases.  
> The Lynkestrian incident soured the alliance with Perdiccas permanently, but at least as Thucydides tells it, it wasn’t the Spartan side that broke the alliance in the end – which you would expect, as they had been the ones abandoned to their fate.   
> The morning that the Makedonian army fled, Perdiccas was apparently unaware of that fact, and Thucydides writes that when he realised what had occurred, ‘he was obliged to leave without speaking with Brasidas himself.’ Nor sending anyone to tell him apparently, because he only found out as I’ve told it, first thing in the morning when the king was long gone. I don’t see why he couldn’t have sent someone to let Brasidas know what was happening, even if he didn’t go himself, but he didn’t. My assumption is that the breach in their relationship created by Brasidas' defiance of Perdiccas’ wishes had only increased since. He would in no way 'bend the knee.'  
> Perhaps surprisingly, what finally destroyed the already fragile alliance was the Greek army’s behaviour. They were understandably angry with having been left to their fate by the 'cowardly' retreat of the Makedonians; as a result, as they marched towards Pallene, whenever they came across the Makedonians carts and draught animals, they slaughtered them and looted anything they could find of value. From that point on, Thucydides tells us, Perdiccas considered Brasidas an enemy and developed a hatred for the Peloponnesians. The feeling was no doubt mutual. However, oddly, Perdiccas doesn't seem to have attempted an attack on the Peloponnesians; his hatred took the form of trying to hinder them instead - but more on that anon.


	30. The Imposition of Inactivity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my... it's been a little while coming. Sorry about that! :)

423BC  
Summer 

The army left Arnisa early on the morning following the retreat. They’d rested overnight, though few of them were able to sleep. There had been a tense, angry silence amongst the unit commanders when Brasidas had called a meeting with them to discuss the plans for the following day – still hoping that they may be able to slip onto Pallene before Athens arrived. Brasidas had urged them to remain calm, but even as he said it, he could tell by their faces it would do no good. As they marched towards the lands of the Chalcidians once more, the soldiers took their anger out on any Makedonian soldiers they came across – not many, at least, since Perdiccas’ army had, for the most part, had a good head start, or already been slaughtered by the Illyrian mercenaries on the plains of Lynkestria – but their pack animals they slaughtered, their abandoned luggage and carts they looted, and to it all, the commanders turned a blind eye.

They reached Olynthos in the late evening a few days later, and in the early evening, Alexios and Brasidas went up onto the walls of the city, looking out across the water towards Pallene and the thick black pall of smoke which hung over it.  
Brasidas said quietly, ‘The Athenians have arrived then. I wish I knew what was going on.’  
They were just turning away when Antidas called up to them from ground level.   
‘General Brasidas, a messenger for you.’  
‘We’re coming down’. Brasidas clambered down the ladder, while Alexios jumped down.  
Antidas showed him into the temple where the messenger waited, and Brasidas demanded tersely, ‘You’ve come from Pallene?’  
The young man had tears in his eyes. ‘Yes, sir. Mende, specifically.’  
Getting a grip on his anxiety, Brasidas prompted more gently, ‘Tell me everything.’  
The young man took a deep breath, gathering himself, and then said as firmly as he could manage, ‘The Athenians arrived in force three days ago, with a force of fifty ships. First, they reinforced Potidaea, then they sailed on Mende. Polydamidas was there with seven hundred hoplites, plus three hundred Scioneans who’d come in solidarity to join with the Mendaeans. They formed up on a hill outside the city, prepared to fight. The Athenians though had split themselves into two armies without Polydamidas’ knowledge, and they attacked from two directions. Fortunately, the terrain was against them, and our forces were able to beat them off with limited casualties on our side, but making a mark on theirs.’ He rubbed his face with both hands before he continued. ‘The following morning, Polydamidas had anticipated a follow up attack, but instead they sailed on Scione instead, and unexpectedly attacked the suburbs there, ravaging the land. No one marched out to face them, but stayed within the walls. Polydamidas sent the three hundred Scioneans at Mende back to their own city during the night, anticipating an attack there on the following morning.’  
Brasidas nodded encouragingly, listening closely.   
‘This morning, one of the Athenian armies ravaged the lands of the Mendaeans, all the way, it seems, to where the Scioneans count their land to begin; the other laid siege to one of the gates of Mende, where the road issues out towards Potidaea.’ He swallowed heavily. ‘That’s when things went bad.’  
Brasidas said soothingly. ‘Tell us step by step what happened.’  
‘Polydamidas called for the garrison to form up for battle near the besieged gate, and take up their arms, but one of the men from the democratic party chose that moment to begin shouting that he had no cause of war and that he refused to fight the Athenians. Polydamidas tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t stop. Polydamidas laid hands on him, and then things got messy. The others in the democratic party took up arms, and fell upon us and our supporters, and threw open the gates to the Athenians. Those of us who escaped their swords fled to the akropolis, and that’s when I was sent to fetch help, but even as I was seeking a boat to escape, both the Athenian armies were pouring into the city and they’d begun burning everything. I escaped only by the whim of the gods.’  
Brasidas stood, and placed a hand on the young man’s arm in thanks, and asked quietly, ‘How many are the Athenians, do you think?’  
‘Around six thousand, sir.’  
Half to himself, he muttered savagely, ‘Peace treaty indeed.’ Then more loudly he said, ‘In the morning we’ll march to Torone. We will have to try to get reinforcements to Scione by boat, and that’s safest from there.’  
When the young man had gone away to join the army where they would feed him and arm him, Brasidas said to Alexios. ‘Perdiccas has a lot to answer for. He kept me in Lynkestria while all this was happening.’  
‘Do you think he knew?’ Alexios asked.   
Brasidas shook his head and said bitterly, ‘Probably. Dishonourable malaka.’

Torone was quiet but tense when the army returned a few days later in the early afternoon. The black cloud in the distance was a sinister reminder to the people that they too had departed the Athenian alliance, and there was every chance they would be next.   
A messenger was waiting for Brasidas in the requisitioned house, hopping from foot to foot with anxiety.  
‘Give me a moment,’ Brasidas said tiredly, holding up a hand when the man opened his mouth to speak even as he was coming in the door. He snapped his mouth closed and frowned.  
Brasidas smiled at this reaction, but didn’t stop. He crossed the room, set down his shield and spear, and rinsed his face from a large bowl of water set there for that purpose. It wasn’t as cold as he would have liked, but looking down, he saw that the water was brown with the dust, and tinged red from the blood that was still crusted everywhere. He had been unable to wash since they’d left Edessa days ago. What I wouldn’t give to bathe, he found himself thinking – now there was a fine un-Spartan feeling, he added wryly to himself, almost smiling.  
He sighed, straightened his back, squared his shoulders, told himself sternly that he wasn’t tired, then turned to the messenger.   
‘Now – please tell me what news you bring. Where have you come from?’  
‘I have been sent to you by the democratic party of Mende.’  
Brasidas narrowed his eyes slightly, making the messenger shift nervously. ‘What news can they have to tell me?’  
‘They wish to advise that Mende has returned to the Athenian alliance, and has been reinstated as a democratic city.’  
‘I see. And the men who were trapped on the akropolis?’  
The messenger seemed surprised by the question, no doubt supposing that the Spartans would be totally blind to what was going on there. He said with reluctance, ‘They slipped out of the city. We heard they’d gone to join the Spartans in Scione. Though how they made it through the circumvallation I couldn’t say.’  
Brasidas raised an eyebrow. So, it was to be a siege then. He said shortly, ‘I see. Was there anything else?’  
When the messenger said no, and had been shown out again, Brasidas collapsed onto a seat, the tiredness finally winning.  
Alexios said with real concern in his voice, ‘You need to sleep, Brasidas.’  
‘How can I?’ he said flatly, too tired to even express the bitterness he felt so strongly. ‘Someone has to arrange the reinforcements for Scione and a dozen other things that need doing.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the wall as he muttered, ‘I wish Adimantos was here.’  
Alexios said quietly but firmly, ‘You won’t be able to do anything at all if you’re so exhausted you can’t think straight. Go to sleep. I’ll speak with Eucles. We’ll deal with it between us. You can check what we’ve arranged when you wake up.’  
Brasidas sighed heavily, his eyes still closed. he could hardly bear to open them again. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘But wake me if I’m needed.’   
Alexios nodded but he had a shifty look about his eyes. Brasidas eyed him sharply. ‘I mean it.’  
Alexios grinned, but made no promises. ‘Go to bed. I’ll wake you before nightfall.’

They tried to send ships – that night, and many times in the days that followed, but the Athenians had taken possession of the bay so thoroughly – using Spartan ships, no doubt, Brasidas thought bitterly – that each attempt had been forced to turn back. He at last had to concede that all he could do was wait for an outcome, despite his frustration and quiet rage with the way events were unfolding. He was a man of action; for the first time since he’d come to Makedonia, he was forced to watch and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Scione was totally circumvallated towards the end of summer, and the bulk of the Athenian army withdrew, leaving a garrison.   
> Thucydides writes that Brasidas made an attempt on Potidaea during the winter. He approached by night and got a ladder against the wall, undetected; but the guards spotted him so he withdrew with his army before morning.   
> On the one hand, I honestly think this reads more like a guard panicking and claiming that he saw Brasidas, rather than the real thing – a rumour, if you will. On the other hand, what was Brasidas doing during all those days and weeks when nothing of note was happening? Was he trying to climb walls of Athenian controlled towns in the middle of the night?   
> To be honest... the thought makes me giggle. Just Brasidas, ladder under one arm, army at his back :)


End file.
